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Appearances 


G.  LOWES  DICKINSON 


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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
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APPEARANCES 


APPEARANCES 


Notes  of  Travel,  East  and  West 


BY 

G.  LOWES  DICKINSON 


^ag3&2E^{(7 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1926 


. i-i.'  ■.I'll!  I'  ir 


J  ^M'  ■..'l'.'«i,*PnM'-f.  LU!  ".jkjil 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
G.  Lowes  Dickinson 

J II  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages^ 

including  the  Scandinavian 


CoUeg^e 


PREFACE 

The  articles  included  in  this  book  have  already  appeared, 
those  from  the  East  in  the  Manchester  Guardian,  those 
from  America  in  the  English  Review.  In  reprinting  them, 
I  have  chosen  a  title  which  may  serve  also  as  an  apology. 
What  I  ofifer  is  not  Reality,  but  appearances  to  me.  From 
such  appearances,  perhaps,  in  time,  Reality  may  be  con- 
structed. I  claim  only  to  make  my  contribution.  I  do  so 
because  the  new  contact  between  East  and  West  is  perhaps 
the  most  important  fact  of  our  age;  and  the  problems  of 
action  and  thought  which  it  creates  can  only  be  solved 
as  each  civilisation  tries  to  understand  the  others,  and,  by 
so  doing,  better  to  understand  itself.  These  articles  rep- 
resent at  any  rate  a  good  will  to  understand;  and  they 
may,  I  hope,  for  that  reason  throw  one  gleam  of  light  on 
the  darkness. 

For  the  opportunity  of  travelling  in  the  East  I  am 
indebted  to  the  munificence  of  Mr.  Albert  Kahn  of  Paris, 
who  has  founded  what  are  known  in  this  country  as  the 
Albert  Kahn  Travelling  Fellowships.^  The  existence  of 
this  endowment  is  perhaps  not  as  widely  known  as  it  should 

'These  Fellowships,  each  of  the  value  of  £660,  were  established  to  enable  the 
persons  appointed  to  them  to  travel  round  the  world.  The  Trust  is  administered 
at  the  University  of  London,  and  full  information  regarding  it  can  be  obtained 
from  the  Principal,  Sir  Henry  Miers,  F.  R.  S.,  who  is  Honorary  Secretary  to  the 
Trustees. 


[v] 

1116503 


PREFACE 

be.  And  if  this  volume  should  be  the  occasion  of  leading 
others  to  take  advantage  of  the  founder's  generosity  it 
will  not  have  been  written  in  vain. 

I  have  hesitated  long  before  deciding  to  republish  the 
letters  on  America.  They  were  written  in  1909,  before 
the  election  of  President  Wilson,  and  all  that  led  up  to 
and  is  implied  in  that  event.  It  was  not,  however,  the 
fact  that,  so  far,  they  are  out  of  date,  that  caused  me  to 
hesitate.  For  they  deal  only  incidentally  with  current  pol- 
itics, and  whatever  value  they  may  have  is  as  a  com- 
mentary on  phases  of  American  civilisation  which  are  of 
more  than  transitory  significance.  Much  has  happened 
in  the  United  States  during  the  last  few  years  which  is  of 
great  interest  and  importance.  The  conflict  between 
democracy  and  plutocracy  has  become  more  conscious  and 
more  acute;  there  have  been  important  developments  in 
the  labour  movements;  and  capital  has  been  so  "  harassed  " 
by  legislation  that  it  may,  for  the  moment,  seem  odd  to 
capitalists  to  find  America  called  "  the  paradise  of  Plutoc- 
racy." No  doubt  the  American  public  has  awakened  to 
its  situation  since  1909.  But  such  awakenings  take  a  long 
time  to  transform  the  character  of  a  civilisation;  and  all 
that  has  occurred  serves  only  to  confirm  the  contention  in 
the  text  that  in  the  new  world  the  same  situation  is  arising 
that  confronts  the  old  one. 

What  made  me  hesitate  was  something  more  important 
than  the  date  at  which  the  letters  were  written.  There 
is  in  them  a  note  of  exasperation  which  I  would  have 

[vi] 


PREFACE 

wished  to  remove  if  I  could.  But  I  could  not,  without  a 
complete  rewriting,  by  which,  even  if  it  were  possible 
to  me,  more  would  have  been  lost  than  gained.  It  is 
this  note  of  exasperation  which  has  induced  me  hitherto 
to  keep  the  letters  back,  in  spite  of  requests  to  the  con- 
trary from  American  friends  and  publishers.  But  the 
opportunity  of  adding  them  as  a  pendant  to  letters  from 
the  East,  where  they  fall  naturally  into  their  place  as  a 
complement  and  a  contrast,  has  finally  overcome  my 
scruples;  the  more  so,  as  much  that  is  said  of  America  is 
as  typical  of  all  the  West,  as  it  is  foreign  to  all  the  East. 
That  this  western  civilisation,  against  which  I  have  so 
much  to  say,  is  nevertheless  the  civilisation  in  which  I 
would  choose  to  live,  in  which  I  believe,  and  about  which 
all  my  hopes  centre,  I  have  endeavoured  to  make  clear 
in  the  concluding  essay.  And  my  readers,  I  hope,  if  any 
of  them  persevere  to  the  end,  will  feel  that  they  have  been 
listening,  after  all,  to  the  voice  of  a  friend,  even  if  the  friend 
be  of  that  disagreeable  kind  called  "candid." 
Cambridge,  1914. 


[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PART  I. 
INDIA 

tHAPTER  PAOS 

I.     In  the  Red  Sea 3 

II.     AjANTA 7 

III.  Ulster  in  India 1 1 

IV.  Anglo-India 15 

V.     A  Mystery  Play 18 

VI.     An  Indian  Saint 22 

VII.    A  Village  in  Bengal .  26 

VIII.     Sri  Ramakrishna 30 

IX.    The  Monstrous  Regimen  of  Women  ...  36 

X.    The  Buddha  at  Burupudur 40 

XI.     A  Malay  Theatre 44 

PART  11. 
CHINA 

I.    First  Impressions  of  China 51 

II.     Nanking 55 

III.  In  the  Yangtse  Gorges 60 

IV.  Pekin 66 

V.    The  Englishman  Abroad 72 

VI.    China  in  Transition 79 

VIJ.     A  Sacred  Mountain 87 

[ixl 


CONTENTS 

PART  III. 
JAPAN 

CHAPTEK  PAGE 

I.     First  Impressions  of  Japan 97 

II.    A  "No"  Dance 102 

III.  NiKKO 107 

IV.  Divine  Right  IN  Japan 112 

V.     Fuji 119 

VI.    Japan  and  America 126 

VII.    Home 132 

PART  IV. 
AMERICA 

I.    The  "Divine  Average" 139 

II.     A  Continent  of  Pioneers 143 

III.  Niagara 150 

IV.  "The  Modern  Pulpit" 154 

V.     In  the  Rockies 161 

VI.     In  the  Adirondacks 167 

Vll.     The  Religion  of  Business 173 

VIII.     Red-Bloods  AND  "  Mollycoddles"     .     .     .  180 

IX.     Advertisement 187 

X.    Culture 192 

XI.     Ant^us 198 

Concluding  Essay 205 


w 


PART  I 
INDIA 


I 

IN  THE  RED  SEA 

"But  why  do  you  do  it?  "  said  the  Frenchman.  From 
the  saloon  above  came  a  sound  of  singing,  and  I  recognised 
a  well-known  hymn.  The  sun  was  blazing  on  a  foam- 
flecked  sea;  a  range  of  islands  lifted  red  rocks  into  the 
glare;  the  wind  blew  fresh;  and,  from  above — 


■  Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring, 
Simply  to  Thy  cross  I  cling." 


Male  voices  were  singing;  voices  whose  owners,  beyond 
a  doubt,  had  no  idea  of  clinging  to  anything.  Female 
voices,  too,  of  dingers,  perhaps,  but  hardly  to  a  cross. 
"Why  do  you  do  it?  "  —  I  began  to  explain.  "For  the 
same  reason  that  we  play  deck-quoits  and  shuflle-board; 
for  the  same  reason  that  we  dress  for  dinner.  It's  the 
system."  "The  system?"  "Yes.  What  I  call  Anglican- 
ism. It's  a  form  of  idealism.  It  consists  in  doing  the 
proper  thing."  "But  why  should  the  proper  thing  be 
done?"  "That  question  ought  not  to  be  asked.  Angli- 
canism is  an  idealistic  creed.  It  is  anti-utilitarian  and 
anti-rational.    It  does  not  ask  questions;  it  has  faith. 

[3I 


APPEARANCES 

The  proper  thing  is  the  proper  thing,  and  because  it  is 
the  proper  thing  it  is  done."  "At  least,"  he  said,  "you 
do  not  pretend  that  this  is  religion?"  "No.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  religion.  But  neither  is  it,  as  you,  too, 
simply  suppose,  hypocrisy.  Hypocrisy  implies  that  you 
know  what  religion  is,  and  counterfeit  it.  But  these 
people  do  not  know,  and  they  are  not  counterfeiting. 
When  they  go  to  church  they  are  not  thinking  of  religion. 
They  are  thinking  of  the  social  system.  The  officers  and 
civilians  singing  up  there  first  learned  to  sing  in  the  village 
church.  They  walked  to  the  church  from  the  great  house; 
the  great  house  stood  in  its  park;  the  park  was  enclosed 
by  the  estate;  and  the  estate  was  surrounded  by  other 
estates.  The  service  in  the  village  church  stood  for  all 
that.  And  the  service  in  the  saloon  stands  for  it  still. 
At  bottom,  what  that  hymn  means  is  not  that  these  men 
are  Christians,  but  that  they  are  carrying  England  to 
India,  to  Burma,  to  China."  "It  is  a  funny  thing,"  the 
Frenchman  mused,  "to  carry  to  300  million  Hindus  and 
Mahometans,  and  400  million  Confucians,  Buddhists, 
and  devil- worshippers.  What  do  they  do  with  it  when 
they  get  there?"  "They  plant  it  down  in  little  oases 
all  over  the  country,  and  live  in  it.  It  is  the  shell  that 
protects  them  in  those  oceans  of  impropriety.  And  from 
that  shell  they  govern  the  world."  "But  how  can  they 
govern  what  they  can't  even  see?"  "They  govern  all 
the  better.  If  once  they  could  see,  they  would  be  lost. 
Doubt  would  ent?r  in.    And  it  is  the  virtue  of  the  English' 

[4] 


IN  THE  RED  SEA 

man  that  he  never  doubts.  That  is  what  the  system 
does  for  him." 

At  this  moment  a  voice  was  borne  down  the  breeze. 
It  was  that  of  my  travelling  companion,  and  it  appeared, 
as  he  approached,  that  he  was  discoursing  to  the  captain 
on  the  merits  of  Dostoievsky's  novels.  He  is  no  respecter 
of  persons;  he  imposes  his  own  conversation;  and  the 
captain,  though  obviously  puzzled,  was  polite.  "Rus- 
sians may  be  like  that,"  he  was  remarking  as  he  passed, 
"but  Englishmen  aren't."  "No,"  said  my  friend,  "but 
don't  you  wish  they  were?"  "I  do  not,"  said  the  captain 
with  conviction.  I  looked  at  the  Frenchman.  "There," 
I  said,  " behold  the  system."  " But  your  friend? "  "Ah, 
but  he,  like  myself,  is  a  pariah.  Have  you  not  observed? 
They  are  quite  polite.  They  have  even  a  kind  of  respect 
—  such  as  our  public  school  boys  have  —  for  any  one 
who  is  queer,  if  only  he  is  queer  enough.  But  we  don't 
'belong,'  and  they  know  it.  We  are  outside  the  system. 
At  bottom  we  are  dangerous,  like  foreigners.  And  they 
don't  quite  approve  of  our  being  let  loose  in  India." 
"Besides,  you  talk  to  the  Indians."  "Yes,  we  talk  to 
the  Indians."  "And  that  is  contrary  to  the  system?" 
"Yes,  on  board  the  boat;  it's  all  very  well  while  you're 
still  in  England."  "  A  strange  system  —  to  perpetuate 
between  rulers  and  ruled  an  impassable  gulf!"  "Yes. 
But,  as  Mr.  Podsnap  remarked,  'so  it  is.'" 

We  had  penetrated  to  the  bows  of  the  ship  and  hung 
looking  over.    Suddenly,  just  imder  the  surf,  there  was 

[5] 


APPEARANCES 

an  emerald  gleam;  another;  then  a  leap  and  a  dive;  a 
leap  and  a  dive  again.  A  pair  of  porpoises  were  playing 
round  the  bows  with  the  ease,  the  spontaneity,  the 
beauty  of  perfect  and  happy  life.  As  we  watched  them 
the  same  mood  grew  in  us  till  it  forced  expression.  And 
"Oh,"  I  said,  "the  ship's  a  prison!"  "No,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  "it's  the  system." 


[61 


II 

AJANTA 

A  DUSTY  road  running  through  an  avenue  across  the 
great  plateau  of  the  Deccan;  scanty  crops  of  maize  and 
cotton;  here  and  there  low  hills,  their  reddish  soil  sparsely 
clothed  with  trees;  to  the  north,  a  receding  line  of  moun- 
tains; elsewhere  infinite  space  and  blazing  light.  Our 
"tonga,"  its  pair  of  wheels  and  its  white  awning  rolling 
and  jolting  behind  two  good  horses,  passes  long  lines  of 
bullock-carts.  Indians,  walking  beside  them  with  their 
inimitable  gait,  make  exquisite  gestures  of  abjection  to 
the  clumsy  white  Sahibs  huddled  imcomfortably  on  the 
back  seat.  Their  robes  of  vivid  colour,  always  harmoni- 
ously blent,  leave  bare  the  slender  brown  legs  and  often 
the  breast  and  back.  Children  stark  naked  ride  on  their 
mothers'  hips  or  their  fathers'  shoulders.  Now  and  agai:: 
the  oxen  are  unyoked  at  a  dribble  of  water,  and  a  party 
rests  and  eats  in  the  shade.  Otherwise  it  is  one  long 
march  with  bare  feet  over  the  burning  soil. 

We  are  approaching  a  market.  The  mud  walls  of  a 
village  appear.  And  outside,  by  a  stream  shrunk  now 
into  muddy  pools,  shimmers  and  wimmers  a  many- 
coloured    crowd,    buzzing    among    their    wagons    and 

[7] 


APPEARANCES 

awnings  and  improvised  stalls.  We  ford  the  shallow 
stream,  where  women  are  washing  clothes,  cleaning  their 
teeth,  and  drinking  from  the  same  water,  and  pass  among 
the  bags  of  com,  the  sugar-cane,  and  sweetmeats,  saluted 
gravely  but  unsolicited. 

Then  on  again  for  hours,  the  road  now  solitary,  till  as 
day  closes  we  reach  Fardapur.  A  cluster  of  mud-walled 
compounds  and  beehive  huts  Ues  about  a  fortified  en- 
closure, where  the  children  sprawl  and  scream,  and  a 
Brahmin  intones  to  silent  auditors.  Outside  they  are 
drawing  water  from  the  puddles  of  the  stream.  And 
gradually  over  the  low  hills  and  the  stretches  of  yellow 
grass  the  after-glow  spreads  a  transfiguring  light.  Out 
of  a  rosy  flush  the  evening  star  begins  to  shine;  the 
crickets  cry;  a  fresh  breeze  blows;  and  another  pitiless 
day  drops  into  oblivion. 

Next  day,  at  dawn,  we  walk  the  four  miles  to  the  famous 
caves,  guided  by  a  boy  who  wears  the  Nizam's  livery,  and 
explains  to  us,  in  a  language  we  do  not  know,  but  with 
perfect  lucidity,  that  it  is  to  him,  and  no  one  else,  that 
backsheesh  is  due.  He  sings  snatches  of  music  as  old 
and  strange  as  the  hills;  picks  us  balls  of  cotton,  and 
prickly  pear;  and  once  stops  to  point  to  the  fresh  tracks 
of  a  panther.  We  are  in  the  winding  gorge  of  a  water- 
course; and  presently,  at  a  turn,  in  a  semicircle  facing 
south,  we  see  in  the  cliff  the  long  line  of  caves.  As  we 
enter  the  first  an  intolerable  odour  meets  us,  and  a  flight 
of  bats  explains  the  cause.    Gradually  our  eyes  accustom 

[8] 


AJANTA 

themselves  to  the  light,  and  we  become  conscious  of  a 
square  hall,  the  flat  roof  resting  on  squat  pillars  elaborately 
carved,  fragments  of  painting  on  the  walls  and  ceiling, 
narrow  slits  opening  into  dark  cells,  and  opposite  the 
entrance,  set  back  in  a  shrine,  a  colossal  Buddha,  the 
light  falling  full  on  the  solemn  face,  the  upturned  feet, 
the  expository  hands.  This  is  a  monastery,  and  most  of 
the  caves  are  on  the  same  plan;  but  one  or  two  are  long 
halls,  presumably  for  worship,  with  barrel-vaulted  roofs, 
and  at  the  end  a  great  solid  globe  on  a  pedestal. 

Of  the  art  of  these  caves  I  will  not  speak.  What  little 
can  be  seen  of  the  painting  —  and  only  ill-lighted  frag- 
ments remain  —  is  full  of  tenderness,  refinement,  and 
grace;  no  touch  of  drama;  no  hint  of  passion.  The 
sculpture,  stripped  of  its  stucco  surface,  is  rude  but  often 
impressive.  But  what  impresses  most  is  not  the  art  but 
the  religion  of  the  place.  In  this  terrible  country,  where 
the  great  forces  of  nature,  drought  and  famine  and 
pestilence,  the  intolerable  sun,  the  intolerable  rain,  and 
the  exuberance  of  life  and  death,  have  made  of  mankind  a 
mere  passive  horde  cowering  before  inscrutable  Powers 
—  here,  more  than  anywhere,  men  were  bound  under  a 
yoke  of  observance  and  ritual  to  the  gods  they  had 
fashioned  and  the  priest  who  interpreted  their  will.  Then 
came  the  Deliverer  to  set  them  free  not  for  but  from  life, 
teaching  them  how  to  escape  from  that  worst  of  all  evils, 
rebirth  again  and  again  into  a  world  of  infinite  suffering, 
unguided  by  any  reason  to  any  good  end.    "There  is  no 

[9] 


APPEARANCES 

god,"  said  this  strange  master,  "there  is  no  soul;  but 
there  is  life  after  death,  life  here  in  this  hell,  unless  you 
will  learn  to  deliver  yourselves  by  annihilating  desire." 
They  listened;  they  built  monasteries;  they  meditated; 
and  now  and  again,  here,  perhaps,  in  these  caves,  one  or 
other  attained  enlightenment.  But  the  cloud  of  Hindu- 
ism, lifted  for  a  moment,  rolled  back  heavier  than  ever. 
The  older  gods  were  seated  too  firmly  on  their  thrones. 
Shiva  —  creator,  preserver,  destroyer  —  expelled  the  Bud- 
dha. And  that  passive  figure,  sublime  in  its  power  of  mind, 
sits  for  ever  alone  in  the  land  of  his  birth,  exiled  from 
light,  in  a  cloud  of  clinging  bats. 

But  outside  proceeds  the  great  pageant  of  day  and 
night,  and  the  patient,  beautiful  people  labour  without 
hope,  while  universal  nature,  symbolised  by  Shiva's  foot, 
presses  heavily  on  their  heads  and  forbids  them  the 
stature  of  man.  Only  the  white  man  here,  bustling, 
ungainly,  aggressive,  retains  his  freedom  and  acts  rather 
than  suffers.  One  understands  at  last  the  full  meaning 
of  the  word  "environment."  Because  of  this  sun,  be- 
cause of  this  soil,  because  of  their  vast  numbers,  these 
people  are  passive,  religious,  fatalistic.  Because  of  our 
cold  and  rain  in  the  north,  our  fresh  springs  and  summers, 
we  are  men  of  action,  of  science,  of  no  reflection.  The 
seed  is  the  same,  but  according  to  the  soil  it  brings  forth 
differently.  Here  the  patience,  the  beauty,  the  abjection 
before  the  Devilish-Divine;  there  the  defiance,  the  cult  of  the 
proud  self.    And  these  things  have  met.    To  what  result? 

[lo] 


m 

ULSTER  IN  INDIA 

"Are  you  a  Home  Ruler?"  "Yes.  Are  you?"  In- 
stantly a  torrent  of  protest.  He  was  a  Mahometan, 
eminent  in  law  and  politics;  clever,  fluent,  forensic,  with 
a  passion  for  hearing  himself  talk,  and  addressing  one 
always  as  if  one  were  a  public  meeting.  He  approached 
his  face  close  to  mine,  gradually  backing  me  into  the  wall. 
And  I  realised  the  full  meaning- of  Carlyle's  dictima  "to 
be  a  mere  passive  bucket  to  be  pumped  into  can  be  agree- 
able to  no  human  being." 

It  was  not,  naturally,  the  Irish  question  for  its  own 
sake  that  interested  him.  But  he  took  it  as  a  type  of 
the  Indian  question.  Here,  too,  he  maintained,  there 
is  an  Ulster,  the  Mahometan  community.  Here,  too, 
there  are  Nationalists,  the  Hindus.  Here,  too,  a  "loyal" 
minority,  protected  by  a  beneficent  and  impartial  Im- 
perial Government.  Here,  too,  a  majority  of  "rebels" 
bent  on  throwing  off  that  Government  in  order  that  they 
may  oppress  the  minority.  Here,  too,  an  ideal  of  in- 
dependence hypocritically  masked  under  the  phrase 
"self-government."  "It  is  a  law  of  political  science  that 
where  there  are  two  minorities  they  should  stand  together 

[ii] 


APPEARANCES 

against  the  majority.  The  Hindus  want  to  get  rid  of 
you,  as  they  want  to  get  rid  of  us.  And  for  that  reason 
alone,  if  there  were  not  a  thousand  others"  —  there  were, 
he  hinted,  but,  rhetorically,  he  "passed  them  over  in 
silence"  —  "for  that  reason  alone  I  am  loyal  to  the  British 
raj."  It  had  never  occurred  to  me  to  doubt  it.  But  I 
questioned,  when  I  got  a  moment's  breathing  space, 
whether  really  the  Hindu  community  deliberately  nour- 
ished this  dark  conspiracy.  He  had  no  doubt,  so  far  as 
the  leaders  were  concerned;  and  he  mistrusted  the 
"moderates"  more  than  the  extremists,  because  they  were 
cleverer.  He  "multiplied  examples"  —  it  was  his  phrase. 
The  movement  for  primary  education,  for  example.  It 
had  nothing  to  do  with  education.  It  was  a  plot  to 
teach  the  masses  Hindi,  in  order  that  they  might  be 
swept  into  the  anti-British,  anti-Mahometan  current. 
As  to  minor  matters,  no  Hindu  had  ever  voted  for  a 
Mahometan,  no  Hindu  barrister  ever  sent  a  client  to  a 
Mahometan  colleague.  Whereas  in  all  these  matters, 
one  was  led  to  infer,  Mahometans  were  conciliation  and 
tolerance  itself.  I  knew  that  the  speaker  himself  had 
secured  the  election  of  Mahometans  to  all  the  seats  in  the 
Council.  But  I  refrained  from  referring  to  the  matter. 
Then  there  was  caste.  A  Hindu  will  not  eat  with  a 
Mahometan,  and  this  was  taken  as  a  personal  insult. 
I  suggested  that  the  English  were  equally  boycotted; 
but  that  we  regarded  the  boycott  as  a  religious  obligation, 
not  as  a  social  stigma.    But,  like  the  Irish  Ulstermen,  he 

[12] 


ULSTER  IN  INDIA 

was  not  there  to  listen  to  argument.  He  rolled  on  like  a 
river.  None  of  us  could  escape.  He  detected  the  first 
signs  of  straying,  and  beckoned  us  back  to  the  flock.  "Mr. 
Audubon,  this  is  important."  "Mr.  Coryat,  you  must 
listen  to  this."  Coryat,  at  last,  grew  restive,  and  re- 
marked rather  tartly  that  no  doubt  there  was  friction 
between  the  two  communities,  but  that  the  worst  way 
to  deal  with  it  was  by  recrimination.  He  agreed;  with 
tears  in  his  eyes  he  agreed.  There  was  nothing  he  had 
not  done,  no  advance  he  had  not  made,  to  endeavour  to 
bridge  the  gulf.  All  in  vain!  Never  were  such  obstinate 
fellows  as  these  Hindus.  And  he  proceeded  once  more 
to  "multiply  examples."  As  we  said  "Good-bye"  in 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning  he  pressed  into  our  hands 
copies  of  his  speeches  and  addresses.  And  we  left  him 
perorating  on  the  steps  of  the  hotel. 

A  painfully  acquired  mistrust  of  generalisation  pre- 
vents me  from  saying  that  this  is  the  Mahometan  point 
of  view.  Indeed,  I  have  reason  to  know  that  it  is  not. 
But  it  is  a  Mahometan  point  of  view  in  one  province. 
And  it  was  endorsed,  more  soberly,  by  less  rhetorical 
members  of  the  community.  Some  twenty-five  years 
ago,  they  say,  Mahometans  woke  to  the  fact  that  they 
were  dropping  behind  in  the  race  for  influence  and  power. 
They  started  a  campaign  of  education  and  organisation. 
At  every  point  they  found  themselves  thwarted;  and 
always,  behind  the  obstacle,  lurked  a  Hindu.  Lord 
Morley's  reform  of  the  Councils,  intended  to  unite  all 

fi3] 


APPEARANCES 

sections,  had  had  the  opposite  effect.  Nothing  but  the 
separate  electorates  had  saved  Mahometans  from  political 
extinction.  And  precisely  because  they  desired  that 
extinction  Hindus  desired  mixed  electorates.  The  elec- 
tions to  the  Councils  have  exasperated  the  antagonism 
between  the  two  communities.  And  an  enemy  might 
accuse  the  Government  of  being  actuated,  in  that  reform, 
by  the  Machiavellian  maxim  "Divide  et  impera." 

What  the  Hindus  have  to  say  to  all  this  I  have  not 
had  an  opportunity  of  learning.  But  they,  too,  I  con- 
ceive, can  "multiply  examples"  for  their  side.  To  a 
philosophic  observer  two  reflections  suggest  themselves. 
One,  that  representative  government  can  only  work 
when  there  is  real  give  and  take  between  the  contending 
parties.  The  other,  that  to  most  men,  and  most  nations, 
reUgion  means  nothing  more  than  antagonism  to  some 
other  religion.  Witness  Ulster  in  Ireland,  and  witness, 
equally,  Ulster  in  India. 


[14] 


IV 

ANGLO -INDIA 

From  the  gallery  of  the  high  hall  we  look  down  to  the 
assembled  society  of  the  cantonment.  The  scene  is  com- 
monplace enough;  twaddle  and  tea,  after  tennis;  "frivol- 
ling " — it  is  their  word;  women  too  empty-headed  and  men 
too  tired  to  do  anything  else.  This  mill-round  of  work  and 
exercise  is  maintained  like  a  religion.  The  gymkhana  rep- 
resents the  "compulsory  games"  of  a  public  school.  It 
is  part  of  the  "white  man's  burden."  He  plays,  as  he 
works,  with  a  sense  of  responsibility.  He  is  bored,  but 
boredom  is  a  duty,  and  there's  nothing  else  to  do. 

The  scene  is  commonplace.  Yes!  But  this  afternoon 
a  band  is  playing.  The  music  suits  the  occasion.  It  is 
soft,  melodious,  sentimental.  It  provokes  a  vague  sen- 
sibility, and  makes  no  appeal  to  the  imagination.  At 
least  it  should  not,  from  its  quality.  But  the  power  of 
music  is  incalculable.  It  has  an  essence  independent 
of  its  forms.  And  by  virtue  of  that  essence  its  poorest 
manifestations  can  sink  a  shaft  into  the  springs  of  life. 
So  as  I  listen  languidly  the  scene  before  me  detaches 
itself  from  actuality  and  floats  away  on  the  stream  of 
art.    It  becomes  a  symbol;  and  around  and  beyond  it, 

[15] 


APPEARANCES 

in  some  ideal  space,  other  symbols  arise  and  begin  to 
move.  I  see  the  East  as  an  infinite  procession.  Huge 
Bactrian  camels  balance  their  bobbing  heads  as  they 
pad  deliberately  over  the  burning  dust.  Laden  asses, 
cattle,  and  sheep,  and  goats  move  on  in  troops.  Black- 
bearded  men,  men  with  beard  and  hair  dyed  red,  women 
pregnant  or  carrying  babies  on  their  hips,  youths  like 
the  Indian  Bacchus  with  long  curling  hair,  children  of  all 
ages,  old  men  magnificent  and  fierce,  all  the  generations 
of  Asia  pass  and  pass  on,  seen  like  a  frieze  against  a  rock 
background,  blazing  with  colour,  rhythmical  and  fluent, 
marching  menacingly  down  out  of  infinite  space  on  to 
this  little  oasis  of  Englishmen.  Then,  suddenly,  they 
are  an  ocean;  and  the  Anglo-Indian  world  floats  upon 
it  like  an  Atlantic  liner.  It  has  its  gymnasium,  its 
swimming-bath,  its  card-rooms,  its  concert-room.  It 
has  its  first  and  second  class  and  steerage  well  marked 
off.  It  dresses  for  dinner  every  night;  it  has  an  Anglican 
service  on  Sunday;  it  flirts  mildly;  it  is  bored;  but 
above  all  it  is  safe.  It  has  water-tight  compartments. 
It  is  "unsinkable."  The  band  is  playing;  and  when  the 
crash  comes  it  will  not  stop.  No;  it  will  play  this  music, 
this,  which  is  in  my  ears.  Is  it  Gounod's  "Faust"  or  an 
Anglican  hymn?  No  matter!  It  is  the  same  thing, 
sentimental,  and  not  imaginative.  And  sentimentally, 
not  imaginatively,  the  Englishman  will  die.  He  will  not 
face  the  event,  but  he  will  stand  up  to  it.  He  will  realise 
nothing,  but  he  will  shrink  from  nothing.    Of  all  the  stories 

[i6] 


ANGLO -INDIA 

about  the  loss  of  the  Titanic  the  best  and  most  characteris- 
tic is  that  of  the  group  of  men  who  sat  conversing  in  the 
second-class  smoking-room,  till  one  of  them  said,  "Now 
she's  going  down.  Let's  go  and  sit  in  the  first-class  saloon." 
And  they  did.  How  touching!  How  sublime!  How  Eng- 
lish !  The  Titanic  sinks.  With  a  roar  the  machinery  crashes 
from  stern  to  bow.  Dust  on  the  water,  cries  on  the  water, 
then  vacuity  and  silence.  The  East  has  swept  over  this 
colony  of  the  West.  And  still  its  generations  pass  on, 
rhythmically  swinging;  slaves  of  Nature,  not,  as  in  the 
West,  rebels  against  her;  cyclical  as  her  seasons  and  her 
stars;  infinite  as  her  storms  of  dust;  identical  as  the  leaves  of 
her  trees;  purposeless  as  her  cyclones  and  her  earthquakes. 
The  music  stops  and  I  rub  my  eyes.  Yes,  it  is  only 
the  club,  only  tea  and  twaddle!  Or  am  I  wrong?  There 
is  more  in  these  men  and  women  than  appears.  They 
stand  for  the  West,  for  the  energy  of  the  world,  for  all, 
in  this  vast  Nature,  that  is  determinate  and  purposive, 
not  passively  repetitionary.  And  if  they  do  not  know  it, 
if  they  never  hear  the  strain  that  transposes  them  and 
their  work  into  a  tragic  dream,  if  tennis  is  tennis  to  them, 
and  a  valse  a  valse,  and  an  Indian  a  native,  none  the  less 
they  are  what  a  poet  would  see  them  to  be,  an  oasis  in 
the  desert,  a  liner  on  the  ocean,  ministers  of  the  life  within 
life  that  is  the  hope,  the  inspiration,  and  the  meaning  of 
the  world.  In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  apologise  as  I  pro- 
long the  banalities  of  parting,  and  almost  vow  nevei 
again  to  abuse  Gounod's  music. 

[17I 


A  MYSTERY  PLAY 

A  FEW  lamps  set  on  the  floor  lit  up  the  white  roof.  On 
either  side  the  great  hall  was  open  to  the  night;  and 
now  and  again  a  bird  flew  across,  or  a  silent  figure  flitted 
from  dark  to  dark.  On  a  low  platform  sat  the  dancers, 
gorgeously  robed.  All  were  boys.  The  leader,  a  peacock- 
fan  flashing  in  his  head-dress,  personated  Krishna.  Be- 
side him  sat  Rhada,  his  wife.  The  rest  were  the  milk- 
maids of  the  legend.  They  sat  like  statues,  and  none  of 
them  moved  at  our  entry.  But  the  musicians,  who  were 
seated  on  the  ground,  rose  and  salaamed,  and  instantly 
began  to  play.  There  were  five  instruments  —  a  minia- 
ture harmonium  (terrible  innovation),  two  viols,  of  flat, 
unresonant  tone,  a  pair  of  cymbals,  and  a  small  drum. 
The  ear,  at  first,  detected  little  but  discordant  chaos, 
but  by  degrees  a  form  became  apparent  —  short  phrases, 
of  strong  rhythm,  in  a  different  scale  from  ours,  repeated 
again  and  again,  and  strung  on  a  thread  of  loose  impro- 
visation. Every  now  and  again  the  musicians  burst  into 
song.  Their  voices  were  harsh  and  nasal,  but  their  art 
was  complicated  and  subtle.  Clearly,  this  was  not  bar- 
barous music,  it  was  only  strange,  and  its  interest  in- 

[i8] 


A  MYSTERY  PLAY 

creased,  as  the  ear  became  accustomed  to  it.  Suddenly, 
as  though  they  could  resist  no  longer,  the  dancers,  who  had 
not  moved,  leapt  from  the  platform  and  began  their 
dance.  It  was  symbolical;  Krishna  was  its  centre,  and 
the  rest  were  wooing  him.  Desire  and  its  frustration  and 
fulfilment  were  the  theme.  Yet  it  was  not  sensual,  or 
not  merely  so.  The  Hindus  interpret  in  a  religious  spirit 
this  legendary  sport  of  Krishna  with  the  milkmaids.  It 
symbolises  the  soul's  wooing  of  God.  And  so  these  boys 
interpreted  it.  Their  passion,  though  it  included  the 
flesh,  was  not  of  the  flesh.  The  mood  was  rapturous,  but 
not  abandoned;  ecstatic,  but  not  orgiastic.  There  were 
moments  of  a  hushed  suspense  when  hardly  a  muscle 
moved;  only  the  arms  undulated  and  the  feet  and  hands 
vibrated.  Then  a  break  into  swift  whirling,  on  the  toes 
or  on  the  knees,  into  leaping  and  stamping,  swift  flight  and 
pursuit.  A  pause  again;  a  slow  march;  a  rush  with  twin- 
kling feet;  and  always,  on  those  young  faces,  even  in  the 
moment  of  most  excitement,  a  look  of  solemn  rapture,  as 
though  they  were  carried  out  of  themselves  into  the  di- 
vine. I  have  seen  dancing  more  accomplished,  more 
elaborate,  more  astonishing  than  this.  But  never  any 
that  seemed  to  me  to  fulfil  so  well  the  finest  purposes  of 
the  art.  The  Russian  ballet,  in  the  retrospect,  seems 
trivial  by  comparison.  It  was  secular;  but  this  was  re- 
ligious. For  the  first  time  I  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  what  the  tragic  dance  of  the  Greeks  might  have  been 
like.    The  rhythms  were  not  unlike  those  of  Greek  chor- 

[19I 


APPEARANCES 

uses,  the  motions  corresponded  strictly  to  the  rhythms,  and 
all  was  attuned  to  a  high  religious  mood.  In  such  dancing 
the  flesh  becomes  spirit,  the  body  a  transparent  emblem 
of  the  soul. 

After  that  the  play,  I  confess,  was  a  drop  into  bathos. 
We  descended  to  speech,  even  to  tedious  burlesque. 
But  the  analogy  was  all  the  closer  to  mediaeval  mysteries. 
In  ages  of  Faith  religion  is  not  only  sublime;  it  is  intimate, 
humorous,  domestic;  it  sits  at  the  hearth  and  plays  in  the 
nursery.  So  it  is  in  India  where  the  age  of  Faith  has  never 
ceased.  What  was  represented  that  night  was  an  episode 
in  the  story  of  Krishna.  The  characters  were  the  infant 
god,  his  mother,  Jasodha,  and  an  ancient  Brahmin  who 
has  come  from  her  own  country  to  congratulate  her  on  the 
birth  of  a  child.  He  is  a  comic  character  —  the  sagging 
belly  and  the  painted  face  of  the  pantomime.  He  answers 
Jasodha's  inquiries  after  friends  and  relations  at  home. 
She  offers  him  food.  He  professes  to  have  no  appetite, 
but,  on  being  pressed,  demands  portentous  measures  of 
rice  and  flour.  While  she  collects  the  material  for  his 
meal,  he  goes  to  bathe  in  the  Jumna;  and  the  whole  ritual 
of  his  ablutions  is  elaborately  travestied,  even  a  crocodile 
being  introduced  in  the  person  of  one  of  the  musicians, 
who  rudely  pulls  him  by  the  leg  as  he  is  rolling  in  imagi- 
nary water.  His  bathing  finished,  he  retires  and  cooks  his 
food.  When  it  is  ready  he  falls  into  prayer.  But  during 
his  abstraction  the  infant  Krishna  crawls  up  and  begins 
devouring  the  food.    Returning  to  himself,  the  Brahmin, 

[20] 


A  MYSTERY  PLAY 

in  a  rage,  runs  off  into  the  darkness  of  the  hall.  Jasodha 
pursues  him  and  brings  him  back.  And  he  begins  once 
more  to  cook  his  food.  This  episode  was  repeated  three 
times  in  all  its  details,  and  I  confess  I  found  it  insufferably 
tedious.  The  third  time  Jasodha  scolds  the  child  and 
asks  him  why  he  does  it.  He  replies  —  and  here  comes  the 
pretty  point  of  the  play  —  that  the  Brahmin,  in  praying 
to  God  and  offering  him  the  food,  unwittingly  is  praying 
to  him  and  offering  to  him,  and  in  eating  the  food  he  has 
but  accepted  the  offering.  The  mother  does  not  under- 
stand, but  the  Brahmin  does,  and  prostrates  himself 
before  his  Lord. 

This  is  crude  enough  art,  but  at  any  rate  it  is  genuine. 
Like  all  primitive  art,  it  is  a  representation  of  what  is 
traditionally  believed  and  popularly  felt.  The  story  is 
familiar  to  the  audience  and  intimate  to  their  lives.  It 
represents  details  which  they  witness  every  day,  and  at 
the  same  time  it  has  religious  significance.  Out  of  it  might 
grow  a  great  drama,  as  once  in  ancient  Greece.  And 
perhaps  from  no  other  origin  can  such  a  drama  arise. 


[21] 


VI 

AN  INDIAN  SAINT 

It  was  at  Benares  that  we  met  him.  He  led  us  through 
the  maze  of  the  bazaars,  his  purple  robe  guiding  us  like 
a  star,  and  brought  us  out  by  the  mosque  of  Aurungzebe. 
Thence  a  long  flight  of  stairs  plunged  sheer  to  the  Ganges, 
shining  below  in  the  afternoon  sun.  We  descended;  but, 
turning  aside  before  we  reached  the  shore,  came  to  a  tiny 
house  perched  on  a  terrace  above  the  ghat.  We  took  off 
our  shoes  in  the  anteroom  and  passed  through  a  second 
chamber,  with  its  river-side  open  to  the  air,  and  reached 
a  tiny  apartment,  where  he  motioned  us  to  a  divan.  We 
squatted  and  looked  round.  Some  empty  bottles  were 
the  only  furniture.  But  on  the  wall  hung  the  picture  we 
had  come  to  see.  It  was  a  symbolic  tree,  and  perhaps  as 
much  like  a  tree  as  what  it  symbolised  was  like  the  universe. 
Embedded  in  its  trunk  and  branches  were  coloured  circles 
and  signs,  and  from  them  grew  leaves  and  flowers  of  various 
hues.  Below  was  a  garden  lit  by  a  rising  sun,  and  a  black 
river  where  birds  and  beasts  pursued  and  devoured  one 
another.  At  our  request  he  took  a  pointer  and  began  to 
explain.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  well  imderstood  or  well 
remember,  but  something  of  this  kind  was  the  gist  of  it. 

[22] 


AN  INDIAN  SAINT 

In  the  beginning  was  Parabrahma,  existing  in  himself,  a 
white  circle  at  the  root  of  the  tree.  Whence  sprang, 
following  the  line  of  the  trunk,  the  egg  of  the  universe, 
pregnant  with  all  potentialities.  Thence  came  the  energy 
of  Brahma;  and  of  this  there  were  three  aspects,  the  Good, 
the  Evil,  and  the  Neuter,  symbolised  by  three  triangles  in 
a  circle.  Thence  the  trunk  continued,  but  also  thence 
emerged  a  branch  to  the  right  and  one  to  the  left.  The 
branch  to  the  right  was  Illusion  and  ended  in  God;  the 
branch  to  the  left  was  Ignorance  and  ended  in  the  Soul. 
Thus  the  Soul  contemplates  Illusion  under  the  form  of  her 
gods.  Up  the  line  of  the  trunk  came  next  the  Energy  of 
Nature;  then  Pride;  then  Egotism  and  Individuality; 
whence  branched  to  one  side  Mind,  to  the  other  the  senses 
and  the  passions.  Then  followed  the  elements,  fire,  air, 
water,  and  earth;  then  the  vegetable  creation;  then 
com;  and  then,  at  the  summit  of  the  tree,  the  primitive 
Man  and  Woman,  type  of  Humanity.  The  garden  below 
was  Eden,  until  the  sun  rose;  but  with  Ught  came  discord 
and  conflict,  symbolised  by  the  river  and  the  beasts. 
Evil  and  conflict  belong  to  the  nature  of  the  created  world; 
and  the  purpose  of  religion  is  by  contemplation  to  enable 
the  Soul  to  break  its  bodies,  and  the  whole  creation  to 
return  again  to  Parabrahma,  whence  it  spnmg. 

Why  did  it  spring?  He  did  not  know.  For  good 
or  for  evil?  He  could  not  say.  What  he  knew  he  knew, 
and  what  he  did  not  know  he  did  not.  "  Some  say  there 
is  no  God  and  no  Soul."    He  smiled.    "LetthemI"    His 

I23I 


APPEARANCES 

certainty  was  complete.  "Can  the  souls  of  men  be  rein- 
carnated as  animals?  "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Who 
can  say?"  I  tried  to  put  in  a  plea  for  the  life  of  action, 
but  he  was  adamant;  contemplation  and  contemplation 
alone  can  deliver  us.  "Our  good  men,"  I  said,  "desire 
to  make  the  world  better,  rather  than  to  save  their  own 
souls."  "  Our  sages,"  he  replied,  "  are  sorry  for  the  world, 
but  they  know  they  cannot  help  it."  His  religion,  I 
urged,  denied  all  sense  to  the  process  of  history.  "There 
may  be  process  in  matter,"  he  replied,  "but  there  is  none 
in  God."  I  protested  that  I  loved  individual  souls,  and 
did  not  want  them  absorbed  in  Parabrahma.  He  laughed 
his  good  cheery  laugh,  out  of  his  black  beard,  but  it  was 
clear  that  he  held  me  to  be  a  child,  imprisoned  in  the 
Ego.  I  felt  like  that,  and  I  hugged  my  Ego;  so  presently 
he  ministered  to  it  with  sweetmeats.  He  even  ate  with 
us,  and  smoked  a  cigarette.  He  was  the  most  human  of 
men;  so  human  that  I  thought  his  religion  could  not  be 
as  inhuman  as  it  sounded.  But  it  was  the  religion  of  the 
East,  not  of  the  West.  It  refused  all  significance  to  the 
temporal  world;  it  took  no  accoimt  of  society  and  its 
needs;  it  sought  to  destroy,  not  to  develop,  the  sense  and 
the  power  of  Individuality.  It  did  not  say,  but  it  implied 
that  creation  was  a  mistake;  and  if  it  did  not  profess 
pessimism,  pessimism  was  its  logical  outcome.  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  is  the  religion  of  a  wise  race;  but  I  aro 
sure  it  could  never  be  that  of  a  strong  one. 
But  I  loved  the  saint,  and  felt  that  he  was  a  brother. 

[24] 


AN  INDIAN  SAINT 

Next  morning,  as  we  drifted  past  the  long  line  of  ghats, 
watching  the  bright  figures  on  the  terraces  and  stairs, 
the  brown  bodies  in  the  water,  and  the  Brahmins  squat- 
ting on  the  shore,  we  saw  him  among  the  bathers,  and 
he  called  to  us  cheerily.  We  waved  our  hands  and  passed 
on,  never  to  see  him  again.  East  had  not  met  West,  but 
at  least  they  had  shaken  hands  across  the  gulf.  The  gulf, 
however,  was  profound;  for  many  and  many  incarnations 
ivill  be  needed  before  one  soul  at  least  can  come  even  to 
wish  to  annihilate  itself  in  the  Universal. 


l2S) 


vn 

A  VILLAGE  IN  BENGAL 

At  6  A.  M.  we  got  out  of  the  train  at  a  station  on  the 
Ganges;  and  after  many  delays  found  ourselves  drifting 
down  the  river  in  a  houseboat.  To  lie  on  cushions,  shel- 
tered from  the  sun,  looking  out  on  the  moving  shore, 
to  the  sound  of  the  leisurely  plash  of  oars,  is  elysium  after 
a  night  in  the  train.  We  had  seven  hours  of  it,  and  I 
could  have  wished  it  were  more.  But  towards  sunset 
we  reached  our  destination.  At  the  wharf  a  crowd  of 
servants  were  waiting  to  touch  the  feet  of  our  hosts  who 
had  travelled  with  us.  They  accompanied  us  through  a 
tangle  of  palms,  bananas,  mangoes,  canes,  past  bamboo 
huts  raised  on  platforms  of  hard,  dry  mud,  to  the  central 
place  where  a  great  banyan  stood  in  front  of  the  temple. 
We  took  off  our  shoes  and  entered  the  enclosure,  followed 
by  half  the  village,  silent,  dignified,  and  deferential.  Over 
ruined  shrines  of  red  brick,  elaborately  carved ^  clambered 
and  twined  the  sacred  peepul  tree.  And  within  a  more 
modern  building  were  housed  images  of  Krishna  and 
Rhada,  and  other  symbols  of  what  we  call,  too  hastily, 
idolatry.  Outside  was  a  circular  platform  of  brick  where 
these  dolls  are  washed  in  milk  at  the  great  festivals  of  the 

[26] 


A  VILLAGE  IN  BENGAL 

year.  We  passed  on,  and  watched  the  village  weaver  at 
his  work,  sitting  on  the  ground  with  his  feet  in  a  pit  work- 
ing the  pedals  of  his  loom;  while  outside,  in  the  garden,  a 
youth  was  running  up  and  down  setting  up,  thread  by 
thread,  the  long  strands  of  the  warp.  By  the  time  we 
reached  the  house  it  was  dusk.  A  lamp  was  brought 
into  the  porch.  Musicians  and  singers  squatted  on  the 
floor.  Behind  them  a  white-robed  crowd  faded  into  the 
night.  And  we  listened  to  hymns  composed  by  the  village 
saint,  who  had  lately  passed  away. 

First  there  was  a  prayer  for  forgiveness.  "Lord, 
forgive  us  our  sins.  You  must  forgive,  for  you  are  called 
the  merciful.  And  it's  so  easy  for  you !  And,  if  you  don't, 
what  becomes  of  your  reputation?"  Next,  a  call  to  the 
ferry.  "Come  and  cross  over  with  me.  Krishna  is  the 
boat  and  Rhada  the  sail.  No  storms  can  wreck  us. 
Come,  cross  over  with  me."  Then  a  prayer  for  deliver- 
ance from  the  "well"  of  the  world  where  we  are  impris- 
oned by  those  dread  foes,  the  five  senses  of  the  mind. 
Then  a  rhapsody  on  God,  invisible,  incomprehensible. 
"He  speaks,  but  He  is  not  seen.  He  lives  in  the  room 
with  me,  but  I  cannot  find  Him.  He  brings  to  market 
His  moods,  but  the  marketer  never  appears.  Some  call 
Him  fire,  some  ether.  But  I  ask  His  name  in  vain.  I 
suppose  I  am  such  a  fool  that  they  will  not  tell  it  me." 
Then  a  strange,  ironical  address  to  Krishna.  "Really,  sir, 
your  conduct  is  very  odd!  You  flirt  with  the  Gopis! 
You  put  Rhada  in  a  sulk,  and  then  ask  to  be  forgiven! 

[27I 


APPEARANCES 

You  say  you  are  a  god,  and  yet  you  pray  to  God!  Really > 
sir,  what  are  we  to  think?"  Lastly,  a  mystic  song,  how 
Krishna  has  plunged  into  the  ocean  of  Rhada;  how  he  is 
there  drifting,  helpless  and  lost.  Can  we  not  save  him? 
But  no!  It  is  because  his  love  is  not  perfect  and  pure. 
And  that  is  why  he  must  be  incarnated  again  and  again 
in  the  avatars. 

Are  these  people  idolaters,  these  dignified  old  men, 
these  serious  youths,  these  earnest,  grave  musicians? 
Look  at  their  temple,  and  you  say,  "Yes."  Listen  to 
their  hymns,  and  you  say,  "No."  Reformers  want  to 
educate  them,  and,  perhaps,  they  are  right.  But  if 
education  is  to  mean  the  substitution  of  the  gramophone 
and  music-hall  songs  for  this  traditional  art,  these  native 
hymns?  I  went  to  bed  pondering,  and  was  awakened  at 
six  by  another  chorus  telling  us  it  was  time  to  get  up.  We 
did  so,  and  visited  the  school,  set  up  by  my  friend  as  an 
experiment;  a  mud  floor,  mud-lined  walls,  all  scrupulously 
clean;  and  squatting  round  the  four  sides  children  of  all 
ages,  all  reciting  their  lessons  at  once,  and  all  the  lessons 
different.  They  were  learning  to  read  and  write  their 
native  language,  and  that,  at  least,  seemed  harmless 
enough.  But  parents  complained  that  it  unfitted  them 
for  the  fields.  "Our  fathers  did  not  do  it"  —  that,  said 
my  impatient  young  host,  is  their  reply  to  every  attempt 
at  reform.  In  his  library  were  all  the  works  of  Nietzsche, 
Tolstoy,  Wells,  and  Shaw,  as  well  as  all  the  technical  jour- 
nals of  scientific  agriculture.    He  lectured  them  on  the 

[28] 


A  VILLAGE  IN  BENGAL 

chemical  constituents  of  milk  and  the  crossing  of  sugar- 
canes.  They  embraced  his  feet,  sang  their  hymns,  and 
did  as  their  fathers  had  done.  He  has  a  hard  task  before 
him,  but  one  far  better  worth  attempting  than  the  legal 
and  political  activities  in  which  most  young  Zemindars 
indulge.  And,  as  he  said,  here  you  see  the  fields  and  hear 
the  birds,  and  here  you  can  bathe  in  the  Ganges.  We 
did;  and  then  breakfasted;  and  then  set  out  in  palanquins 
for  the  nearest  railway  station.  The  bearers  sang  a 
rhythmic  chant  as  they  bore  us  smoothly  along  through 
mustard  and  pulses,  yellow  and  orange  and  mauve.  The 
sun  blazed  hot;  the  bronzed  figures  streamed  with  sweat; 
the  cheerful  voices  never  failed  or  flagged.  I  dozed  and 
drowsed,  while  East  and  West  in  my  mind  wove  a  web 
whose  pattern  I  cannot  trace.  But  a  pattern  there  is. 
And  some  day  historians  will  be  able  to  find  it. 


Uq] 


vm 

SRI  RAMAKRISHNA 

As  WE  dropped  down  the  Hooghly  they  pointed  to  a 
temple  on  the  shore  as  lately  the  home  of  Sri  Rama- 
krishna.  He  was  only  a  name  to  me,  and  I  did  not  pay 
much  attention,  though  I  had  his  "Gospel"^  actually 
under  my  arm.  I  was  preoccupied  with  the  sunset, 
burning  behind  a  veil  of  smoke;  and  presently,  as  we 
landed,  with  the  great  floating  haystacks  smouldering 
at  the  wharf  in  the  red  afterglow.  As  we  waited  for 
the  tram,  someone  said,  "Would  you  like  to  see  Kali?" 
and  we  stepped  aside  to  the  httle  shrine.  Within  it 
was  the  hideous  idol,  black  and  many-armed,  decked 
with  tinsel  and  fed  with  the  blood  of  goats;  and  there 
swept  over  me  a  wave  of  the  repulsion  I  had  felt  from 
the  first  for  the  Hindu  religion,  its  symbols,  its  cult, 
its  architecture,  even  its  philosophy.  Seated  in  the  tram, 
it  was  with  an  effort  that  I  opened  the  "Gospel"  of  Sri 
Ramakrishna.  But  at  once  my  attention  was  arrested. 
This  was  an  account  by  a  disciple  of  the  Ufe  and  sayings 
of  his  master.    And  presently  I  read  the  following: 


^Gospel  of  Sri  Ramakrishna.    Second  Edition.     Part  I.    Madias: 
Published  by  the  Ramakrishna  Mission.     191 2. 

[30] 


SRI  RAMAKRISHNA 

"Disciple.  Then,  sir,  one  may  hold  that  God  is  'with 
form.'  But  surely  He  is  not  the  earthen  image  that  is 
worshipped! 

"Master.  But,  my  dear  sir,  why  should  you  call  it  an 
earthen  image?  Surely  the  Image  Divine  is  made  of  the 
Spirit! 

" The  disciple  cannot  follow  this.  He  goes  on:  But  is 
it  not  one's  duty,  sir,  to  make  it  clear  to  those  who  wor- 
ship images  that  God  is  not  the  same  as  the  clay  form  they 
worship,  and  that  in  worshipping  they  should  keep  God 
Himself  in  view  and  not  the  clay  images? 

"Master.  You  talk  of  'images  made  of  clay.'  Well, 
there  often  comes  a  necessity  of  worshipping  even  such 
images  as  these.  God  Himself  has  provided  these  various 
forms  of  worship.  The  Lord  has  done  all  this  —  to  suit 
different  men  in  different  stages  of  knowledge. 

"The  mother  so  arranges  the  food  for  her  children  that 
every  one  gets  what  agrees  with  him.  Suppose  she  has 
five  children.  Having  a  fish  to  cook,  she  makes  different 
dishes  out  of  it.  She  can  give  each  one  of  the  children 
what  suits  him  exactly.  One  gets  rich  polow  with  the 
fish,  while  she  gives  only  a  little  soup  to  another  who  is 
of  weak  digestion;  she  makes  a  sauce  of  sour  tamarind  for 
the  third,  fries  the  fish  for  the  fourth,  and  so  on,  exactly 
as  it  happens  to  agree  with  the  stomach.     Don't  you  see? 

"Disciple.  Yes,  sir,  now  I  do.  The  Lord  is  to  be  wor- 
shipped in  the  image  of  clay  as  a  spirit  by  the  beginner. 

[31] 


APPEARANCES 

The  devotee,  as  he  advances,  may  worship  Him  indepen- 
dently of  the  image. 

'^Master.  Yes.  And  again,  when  he  sees  God  he 
reaUses  that  everything  —  image  and  all  —  is  a  mani- 
festation of  the  Spirit.  To  him  the  image  is  made  of 
Spirit  —  not  of  clay.     God  is  a  Spirit." 

As  I  read  this,  I  remembered  the  answer  invariably 
given  to  me  when  I  asked  about  Hindu  idolatry.  The 
people,  I  was  told,  even  the  humblest  and  most  ignorant, 
worshipped  not  the  idol  but  what  it  symboUsed.  Actu- 
ally, this  hideous  Kali  stood  to  them  for  the  Divine  Mother. 
And  I  was  told  of  an  old  woman,  racked  with  rheumatism, 
who  had  determined  at  last  to  seek  reHef  from  the  god- 
dess. She  returned  with  radiant  face.  She  had  seen  the 
Mother!  And  she  had  no  more  rheumatism.  In  this 
popular  religion,  it  would  seem,  the  old  cosmic  elements 
have  dropped  out,  and  the  human  only  persist.  So  that 
even  the  terrifying  form  of  Shiva,  the  Destroyer,  stands 
only  for  the  divine  husband  of  Parvati,  the  divine  wife. 
Hinduism,  I  admitted,  is  not  as  inhuman  and  superstitious 
as  it  looks.  But  I  admitted  it  reluctantly  and  with  many  re- 
serves, remembering  all  I  had  seen  and  heard  of  obscene  rites 
and  sculptures,  of  the  perpetual  repetition  of  the  names  of 
God,  of  parasitic  Brahmins  and  self-torturing  ascetics. 

What  manner  of  man,  then,  was  this  Sri  Ramakrishna? 
I  turned  the  pages  and  read: 

"The  disciples  were  walking  about  the  garden.    M. 

I32] 


SRI  RAMAKRISHNA 

walked  by  himself  at  the  cluster  of  five  trees.  It  is  about 
five  in  the  afternoon.  Coming  back  to  the  veranda, 
north  of  the  Master's  chamber,  M.  comes  upon  a  strange 
sight.  The  Master  is  standing  still.  Narendra  is  sing- 
ing a  hymn.  He  and  three  or  four  other  disciples  are 
standing  with  the  Master  in  their  midst.  M.  is  charmed 
with  their  song.  Never  in  his  life  has  he  heard  a  sweeter 
voice.  Looking  at  the  Master,  M.  marvels  and  becomes 
speechless.  The  Master  stands  motionless.  His  eyes 
are  fixed.  It  is  hard  to  say  whether  he  is  breathing  or 
not.  This  state  of  ecstasy,  says  a  disciple  in  low  tones, 
is  called  Samadhi.  M.  has  never  seen  or  heard  of  any- 
thing like  this.  He  thinks  to  himself,  '  Is  it  possible  that 
the  thought  of  God  can  make  a  man  forget  the  world? 
How  great  must  be  his  faith  and  love  for  God  who  is 
thrown  into  such  a  state! '" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "that  is  the  Hindu  ideal  —  ecstatic  con- 
templation." Something  in  me  leapt  to  approve  it; 
but  the  stronger  pull  was  to  Hellenism  and  the  West. 
"Go  your  way,  Ramakrishna,"  I  said,  "but  your  way 
is  not  mine.  For  me  and  my  kind  action  not  medita- 
tion; the  temporal,  not  the  eternal;  the  human,  not  the 
ultra-divine;  Socrates  not  Ramakrishnal"  But  hardly 
had  I  said  the  words  when  I  read  on: 

"M.  enters.  Looking  at  him  the  Master  laughs  and 
laughs.    He  cries  out,  'Why,  look!    There  he  is  again!' 

[33 1 


APPEARANCES 

The  boys  all  join  in  the  merriment.  M.  takes  his  seat, 
and  the  Master  tells  Narendra  and  the  other  disciples 
what  has  made  him  laugh.    He  says: 

"  'Once  upon  a  time  a  small  quantity  of  opium  was 
given  to  a  certain  peacock  at  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. Well,  punctually  at  four  the  next  afternoon, 
who  should  come  in  but  the  selfsame  peacock,  longing 
for  a  repetition  of  the  favour  —  another  dose  of  opium!' 
—  (Laughter.) 

"M.  sat  watching  the  Master  as  he  amused  himself 
with  the  boys.  He  kept  up  a  running  fire  of  chaff,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  these  boys  were  his  own  age  and  he  was 
playing  with  them.  Peals  of  laughter  and  brilliant  flashes 
of  humour  follow  upon  one  another,  calling  to  mind  the 
image  of  a  fair  when  the  Joy  of  the  World  is  to  be  had 
for  sale." 

I  rubbed  my  eyes.  Was  this  India  or  Athens?  Is 
East  East?  Is  West  West?  Are  there  any  opposites 
that  exclude  one  another?  Or  is  this  all-comprehensive 
Hinduism,  this  universal  toleration,  this  refusal  to  recog- 
nise ultimate  antagonisms,  this  "mush,"  in  a  word,  as  my 
friends  would  dub  it  —  is  this,  after  all,  the  truest  and 
profoundest  vision? 

And  I  read  in  my  book: 

"M.'s  egotism  is  now  completely  crushed.  He  thinks 
to  himself:    What  this  God-man  says  is  indeed  per- 

l34l 


SRI  RAMAKRISHNA 

fectly  true.  What  business  have  I  to  go  about  preach- 
ing to  others  ?  Have  I  myself  known  God  ?  Do  I  love 
God  ?  About  God  I  know  nothing.  It  would  indeed 
be  the  height  of  folly  and  vulgarity  itself  of  which  I  should 
be  ashamed,  to  think  of  teaching  others!  This  is  not 
mathematics,  or  history,  or  literature;  it  is  the  science  of 
God !    Yes,  I  see  the  force  of  the  words  of  this  holy  man." 


l35l 


DC 

THE  MONSTROUS  REGIMEN  OF  WOMEN 

Here  at  Cape  Comorin,  at  India's  southernmost  point, 
among  the  sands  and  the  cactuses  and  the  palms  rattling 
in  the  breeze,  comes  to  us  news  of  the  Franchise  Bill 
and  of  militant  suffragettes.  And  I  reflect  that  in  this 
respect  England  is  a  "backward"  country  and  Travan- 
core  an  "advanced"  one.  Women  here — except  the 
Brahmin  women  —  are,  and  always  have  been,  politically 
and  socially  on  an  equality  and  more  than  an  equality 
with  men.  For  this  is  one  of  the  few  civihsed  States  — 
for  aught  I  know  it  is  the  only  one  —  in  which  "matri- 
archy" still  prevails.  That  doesn't  mean  — though  the 
word  suggests  it  —  that  women  govern,  though,  in  fact, 
the  succession  to  the  throne  passes  to  women  equally 
with  men.  But  it  means  that  woman  is  the  head  of 
the  family,  and  that  property  follows  her  line,  not  the 
man's.  All  women  own  property  equally  with  men,  and 
own  it  in  their  own  right.  The  mother's  property  passes 
to  her  children,  but  the  father's  passes  to  his  mother's 
kin.  The  husband,  in  fact,  is  not  regarded  as  related  to 
the  wife.  Relationship  means  descent  from  a  common 
mother,  whereas  descent  from  a  common  father  is  a 

[36] 


THE  MONSTROUS  REGIMEN  OF  WOMEN 

negligible  fact,  no  doubt  because  formerly  it  was  a  ques- 
tionable one.  Women  administer  their  own  property  and, 
as  I  am  informed,  administer  it  more  prudently  than  the 
men. 

Not  only  so;  they  have  in  marriage  the  superior  position 
occupied  by  men  in  the  West.  The  Nair  woman  chooses 
her  own  husband;  he  comes  to  her  house,  she  does  not  go 
to  his;  and,  till  recently,  she  could  dismiss  him  as  soon 
as  she  was  tired  of  him.  The  law  —  man-made,  no  doubt! 
—  has  recently  altered  this,  and  now  mutual  consent  is 
required  for  a  valid  divorce.  Still  the  woman  is,  at  least 
on  this  point,  on  an  equality  with  the  man.  And  the 
heavens  have  not  yet  fallen.  As  to  the  vote,  it  is  not  so 
important  or  so  general  here  as  at  home.  The  people 
live  under  a  paternal  monarchy  "by  right  divine."  The 
Rajah  who  consolidated  the  kingdom,  early  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  handed  it  over  formally  to  the  god  of  the 
temple,  and  administers  it  in  his  name.  Incidentally, 
this  gave  him  access  to  temple  revenues.  It  also  makes 
his  person  sacred.  So  much  so  that  in  a  recent  prison 
riot,  when  the  convicts  escaped  and  marched  to  the 
police  with  their  grievances,  the  Rajah  had  only  to  ap- 
pear and  tell  them  to  march  back  to  prison,  and  they  did 
so  to  a  man,  and  took  their  punishment.  The  govern- 
ment, it  will  be  seen,  is  not  by  votes.  Still  there  are  votes 
for  local  councils,  and  women  have  them  equally  with  men. 
Any  other  arrangement  would  have  seemed  merely  pre- 
posterous to  the  Nairs;  and  perhaps  if  any  exclusion  had 

[37I 


APPEARANCES 

been  contemplated  it  would  have  been  of  men  rather  than 
of  women. 

Other  incidental  results  follow  from  the  equality  of 
the  sexes.  The  early  marriages  which  are  the  curse  of 
India  do  not  prevail  among  the  Nairs.  Consequently 
the  schooling  of  girls  is  continued  later.  And  this  State 
holds  the  record  in  all  India  for  female  education.  We 
visited  a  school  of  over  600  girls,  ranging  from  infancy  to 
college  age,  and  certainly  I  never  saw  schoolgirls  look 
happier,  keener,  or  more  alive.  Society,  clearly,  has  not 
gone  to  pieces  under  "the  monstrous  regimen  of  women." 
Travancore  claims,  probably  with  justice,  to  be  the  pre- 
mier native  State;  the  most  advanced,  the  most  pros- 
perous, the  most  happy.  Because  of  the  position  of 
women?  Well,  hardly.  The  climate  is  delightful,  the 
soil  fertile,  the  natural  resources  considerable.  Every 
man  sits  under  his  own  palm  tree,  and  famine  is  unknown. 
The  people,  and  especially  the  children,  are  noticeably 
gay,  in  a  land  where  gaiety  is  not  common.  But  one  need 
not  be  a  suffragette  to  hold  that  the  equality  of  the  sexes 
is  one  element  that  contributes  to  its  well-being,  and  to 
feel  that  in  this  respect  England  lags  far  behind  Tra- 
vancore. 

Echoes  of  the  suffrage  controversy  at  home  have  led 
me  to  dwell  upon  this  matter  of  the  position  of  women. 
But,  to  be  candid,  it  will  not  be  that  that  lingers  in  my 
mind  when  I  look  back  upon  my  sojourn  here.  What 
then?    Perhaps  a  sea  of  pahn  leaves,  viewed  from  the 

I38I 


THE  MONSTROUS  REGIMEN  OF  WOMEN 

lighthouse  top,  stretching  beside  the  sea  of  blue  waves; 
perhaps  a  sandy  riverbed,  with  brown,  nude  figures 
washing  clothes  in  the  shining  pools;  perhaps  the  oiled 
and  golden  skins  glistening  in  the  sun;  perhaps  naked 
children  astride  on  their  mothers'  hips,  or  screaming 
with  laughter  as  they  race  the  motor-car;  perhaps  the 
huge,  tusked  elephant  that  barred  our  way  for  a  moment 
yesterday;  perhaps  the  jungle  teeming  with  hidden  and 
menacing  life;  perhaps  the  seashore  and  its  tumbling 
waves.  One  studies  institutions,  but  one  does  not  love 
them.  Often  one  must  wish  that  they  did  not  exist,  or 
existed  in  such  perfection  that  their  existence  might  be 
unperceived.  Still,  as  institutions  go,  this,  which  regu- 
lates the  relations  of  men  and  women,  is,  I  suppose,  the 
most  important.  So  from  the  surf  of  the  Arabian  sea  and 
the  blaze  of  the  Indian  sun  I  send  this  little  object  lesson. 


[39] 


THE  BUDDHA  AT  BURUPUDUR 

To  THE  north  the  cone  of  a  volcano,  rising  sharp  and  black. 
To  the  east  another.  South  and  west  a  jagged  chain  of 
hills.  In  the  foreground  ricefields  and  cocoa  palms. 
Everywhere  intense  green,  untoned  by  grey;  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  this  strange  erection.  Seen  from  below  and 
from  a  distance  it  looks  like  a  pyramid  that  has  been 
pressed  flat.  In  fact,  it  is  a  series  of  terraces  built  round 
a  low  hill.  Six  of  them  are  rectangular;  then  come  three 
that  are  circular;  and  on  the  highest  of  these  is  a  solid 
dome,  crowned  by  a  cube  and  a  spire.  Round  the  cir- 
cular terraces  are  set,  close  together,  similar  domes,  but 
hollow,  and  pierced  with  lights,  through  which  is  seen  in 
each  a  seated  Buddha.  Seated  Buddhas,  too,  line  the 
tops  of  the  parapets  that  run  round  the  lower  terraces. 
And  these  parapets  are  covered  with  sculpture  in  high 
relief.  One  might  fancy  one's  self  walking  round  one  of 
the  ledges  of  Dante's  "Purgatorio"  meditating  instruc- 
tion on  the  walls.  Here  the  instruction  would  be  for  the 
selfish  and  the  cruel.  For  what  is  inscribed  is  the  legend 
and  cult  of  the  lord  of  tenderness.  Much  of  it  remains 
undeciphered  and  imexplained.    But  on  the  second  ter- 

[40] 


THE  BUDDHA  AT  BURUPUDUR 

race  is  recorded,  on  one  side,  the  life  of  Sakya-Muni;  on 
the  other,  his  previous  incarnations.  The  latter,  taken 
from  the  "  Jatakas,"  are  naive  and  charming  apologues. 

For  example:  Once  the  Buddha  lived  upon  earth  as 
a  hare.  In  order  to  test  him  Indra  came  down  from 
heaven  in  the  guise  of  a  traveller.  Exhausted  and  faint, 
he  asked  the  animals  for  help.  An  otter  brought  fish, 
a  monkey  fruit,  a  jackal  a  cup  of  milk.  But  the  hare  had 
nothing  to  give.  So  he  threw  himself  into  a  fire,  that 
the  wanderer  might  eat  his  roasted  flesh.  Again:  Once 
the  Buddha  lived  upon  earth  as  an  elephant.  He  was 
met  by  seven  hundred  travellers,  lost  and  exhausted  with 
hunger.  He  told  them  where  water  would  be  found,  and, 
near  it,  the  body  of  an  elephant  for  food.  Then,  hasten- 
ing to  the  spot,  he  flung  himself  over  a  precipice,  that  he 
might  provide  the  meal  himself.  Again:  Once  the 
Buddha  lived  upon  earth  as  a  stag.  A  king,  who  was 
hunting  him,  fell  into  a  ravine.  Whereupon  the  stag 
halted,  descended,  and  helped  him  home.  All  round  the 
outer  wall  run  these  pictured  lessons.  And  opposite  is 
shown  the  story  of  Sakya-Muni  himself.  We  see  the 
new-born  child  with  his  feet  on  lotuses.  We  see  the  fatal 
encounter  with  poverty,  sickness,  and  death.  We  see  the 
renunciation,  the  sojourn  in  the  wilderness,  the  attain- 
ment under  the  bo-tree,  the  preaching  of  the  Truth. 
And  all  this  sculptured  gospel  seems  to  bring  home  to 
one,  better  than  the  volumes  of  the  learned,  what  Bud- 
dhism really  meant  to  the  masses  of  its  followers.     It 

[41] 


APPEARANCES 

meant,  surely,  not  the  denial  of  the  soul  or  of  God,  but 
that  warm  impulse  of  pity  and  love  that  beats  still  in  these 
tender  and  human  pictures.  It  meant  not  the  hope  or 
desire  for  extinction,  but  the  charming  dream  of  thousands 
of  lives,  past  and  to  come,  in  many  forms,  many  conditions, 
many  diverse  fates.  The  pessimism  of  the  master  is  as 
little  likely  as  his  high  philosophy  to  have  reached  the 
mind  or  the  heart  of  the  people.  The  whole  history  of 
Buddhism,  indeed,  shows  that  it  did  not,  and  does  not. 
What  touched  them  in  him  was  the  saint  and  the  lover 
of  animals  and  men.  And  this  love  it  was  that  flowed  in 
streams  over  the  world,  leaving  wherever  it  passed,  in 
literature  and  art,  in  pictures  of  flowers  or  mountains,  in 
fables  and  poems  and  tales,  the  trace  of  its  warm  and 
humanising  flood. 

Still,  there  is  the  other  Buddhism,  the  Buddhism  of 
the  thinker;  his  theory  of  human  life,  its  value  and  pur- 
pose. And  it  was  this  that  filled  my  mind  later  as  I  sat 
on  the  summit  next  to  a  solemn  Buddha  against  the  setting 
sun.  For  a  long  time  I  was  silent,  meditating  his  doc- 
trine. Then  I  spoke  of  children,  and  he  said,  "They  grow 
old."  I  spoke  of  strong  men,  and  he  said,  "They  grow 
weak."  I  spoke  of  their  work  and  achievement,  and  he 
said,  "They  die."  The  stars  came  out,  and  I  spoke  of 
eternal  law.  He  said,  "One  law  concerns  you  —  that 
which  binds  you  to  the  wheel  of  life."  The  moon  rose, 
and  I  spoke  of  beauty.  He  said,  "  There  is  one  beauty  — 
that  of  a  soul  redeemed  from  desire."    Thereupon  the 

I42I 


THE  BUDDHA  AT  BURUPUDUR 

West  stirred  in  me,  and  cried  "No!"  "Desire,"  it  said, 
"is  the  heart  and  essence  of  the  world.  It  needs  not  and 
craves  not  extinction.  It  needs  and  craves  perfection. 
Youth  passes;  strength  passes;  life  passes.  Yes!  What 
of  it?  We  have  access  to  the  youth,  the  strength, 
the  life  of  the  world.  Man  is  born  to  sorrow.  Yes! 
But  he  feels  it  as  tragedy  and  redeems  it.  Not 
round  life,  not  outside  life,  but  through  life  is  the 
way.  Desire  more  and  more  intense,  because  more  and 
more  pure;  not  peace,  but  the  plenitude  of  experience. 
Your  foundation  was  false.  You  thought  man  wanted 
rest.  He  does  not.  We  at  least  do  not,  we  of  the  West. 
We  want  more  labour;  we  want  more  stress;  we  want 
more  passion.  Pain  we  accept,  for  it  stings  us  into  life. 
Strife  we  accept,  for  it  hardens  us  to  strength.  We  believe 
in  action;  we  believe  in  desire.  And  we  believe  that  by 
them  we  shall  attain."  So  the  West  broke  out  in  me;  and 
I  looked  at  him  to  see  if  he  was  moved.  But  the  calm 
eye  was  untroubled,  unrufHed  the  majestic  brow,  unper- 
plexed  the  sweet,  solemn  mouth.  Secure  in  his  Nirvana, 
he  heard  or  he  heard  me  not.  He  had  attained  the  life- 
in-death  he  sought.  But  I,  I  had  not  attained  the  life  in 
life.  Unhelped  by  him,  I  must  go  my  way.  The  East, 
perhaps,  he  had  imderstood.  He  had  not  understood 
the  West. 


[43] 


XI 

A  MALAY  THEATRE 

It  seems  to  be  a  principle  among  shipping  companies 
so  to  arrange  their  connections  that  the  traveller  should 
be  compelled  to  spend  some  days  in  Singapore.  We 
evaded  this  necessity  by  taking  a  trip  to  Sumatra,  but 
even  so  a  day  and  a  night  remained  to  be  disposed  of. 
We  devoted  the  morning  to  a  bath  and  a  lunch  at  the 
Sea  View  Hotel,  and  the  afternoon  to  the  Botanical 
Gardens,  where  the  most  attractive  flowers  are  the  chil- 
dren and  the  most  interesting  gardeners  their  Chinese 
nurses.  There  remained  the  evening,  and  we  asked 
about  amusements.  There  was  a  bioscope,  of  course; 
there  is  always  a  bioscope;  we  had  found  one  even  in 
the  tiny  town  of  Medan,  in  Simiatra.  There  was  also 
an  opera  company,  performing  the  "Pink  Girl."  We 
seemed  to  know  all  about  her  without  going  to  see  her. 
Was  there  nothing  else?  Yes;  a  Malay  theatre.  That 
sounded  attractive.  So  we  took  the  tram  through  the 
Chinese  quarter,  among  the  "Ah  Sins"  and  "Hup  Chows," 
where  every  one  was  either  a  tailor  or  a  washerman,  and 
got  down  at  a  row  of  red  lights.  This  was  the  Alexandra 
Hall,  and  a  bill  informed  us  that  the  performers  were  the 

[44] 


A  MALAY  THEATRE 

6traits  Opera  Company.  This  dismayed  us  a  little. 
Still,  we  paid  our  dollars,  and  entered  a  dingy,  dirty  room, 
with  a  few  Malays  occupying  the  back  benches  and  a 
small  group  of  Chinese  women  and  children  in  either 
balcony.  We  took  our  seats  with  half  a  dozen  coloured 
aristocrats  in  the  front  rows,  and  looked  about  us.  We 
were  the  only  Europeans.  But,  to  console  us  in  our 
isolation,  on  either  side  of  the  proscenium  was  painted  a 
couple  of  Italians  in  the  act  of  embracing  as  one  only  em- 
braces in  opera.  We  glanced  at  our  programme  and  saw 
that  the  play  was  the  "Moon  Princess,"  and  that  Afrid,  a 
genie,  figured  in  the  cast.  It  was  then,  at  least,  Ori- 
ental, though  it  could  hardly  be  Malay,  and  our  spirits 
rose.  But  the  orchestra  quickly  damped  them;  there  was 
a  piano,  a  violin,  a  'cello,  a  clarionet,  and  a  cornet,  and 
from  beginning  to  end  of  the  performance  they  were 
never  in  tune  with  themselves  or  with  the  singers.  And 
the  music?  It  was  sometimes  Italian,  sometimes  Span- 
ish, never,  as  far  as  I  could  detect.  Oriental,  and  always 
thoroughly  and  frankly  bad. 

No  matter!  The  curtain  rose  and  displayed  a  garden. 
The  Prince  entered.  He  was  dressed  in  mediaeval  Italian 
costume  (a  style  of  dress,  be  it  said  once  for  all,  which 
was  adopted  by  the  whole  company).  With  gestures  of 
ecstatic  astonishment  he  applied  his  nose  to  the  paper 
roses.  Then  he  advanced  and  appeared  to  sing,  for  his 
mouth  moved;  but  the  orchestra  drowned  any  notes  he 
may  have  emitted.    The  song  finished,  he  lay  down  upon 

[45I 


APPEARANCES 

a  couch  and  slept.  Whereupon  there  entered  an  ugly 
little  girl  in  a  short  white  frock  and  black  stockings  and 
ribbons,  with  an  expression  of  fixed  gloom  upon  her  face, 
and  began  to  move  her  feet  and  arms  in  a  parody  of  Ori- 
ental dancing.  We  thought  at  first  that  she  was  the 
Moon  Princess,  and  felt  a  pang  of  disappointment.  But 
she  turned  out  to  be  the  Spirit  of  Dreams;  and  presently 
she  ushered  in  the  real  Princess,  with  whom,  on  the  spot, 
the  Prince,  unlike  ourselves,  became  violently  enamoured. 
She  vanished,  and  he  woke  to  find  her  a  vision.  Despair 
of  the  Prince;  despair  of  the  King;  despair  of  the  Queen, 
not  unmixed  with  rage,  to  judge  from  her  voice  and 
gestures.  Consultation  of  an  astrologer.  FUght  of  the 
Prince  in  search  of  his  beloved.  Universal  bewilder- 
ment and  incompetence,  such  as  may  be  witnessed  any 
day  in  the  East  when  anything  happens  at  all  out  of 
the  ordinary  way.  At  this  point  enter  the  comic  relief, 
in  the  form  of  woodcutters.  I  am  inclined  to  suppose, 
from  the  delight  of  the  audience,  that  there  was  some- 
thing genuine  here.  But  whatever  it  was  we  were  un- 
able to  follow  it.  Eventually  the  woodcutters  met  Afrid, 
whether  by  chance  or  design  I  could  not  discover.  At 
any  rate,  their  reception  was  rough.  To  borrow  the  words 
of  the  synopsis,  "a  big  fight  arose  and  they  were  thrown 
to  space";  but  not  till  they  had  been  pulled  by  the  hair 
and  ears,  throttled  and  pummelled,  to  the  general  satis- 
faction, for  something  like  half  an  hour. 
The  next  scenes  were  equally  vigorous.    The  synopsis 

[46I 


A  MALAY  THEATRE 

describes  them  thus:  "Several  young  princes  went  to 
Genie  Janar,  the  father  of  the  Moon  Princess,  to  demand 
her  in  marriage.  Afrid,  a  genie,  met  the  princes,  and, 
after  having  a  row,  they  were  all  thrown  away."  The 
row  was  peculiar.  Afrid  took  them  on  one  by  one. 
The  combatants  walked  round  one  another,  back  to  back, 
making  feints  in  the  air.  Then  the  Prince  got  a  blow 
in,  which  Afrid  pretended  to  feel.  But  suddenly,  with 
a  hoarse  laugh,  he  rushed  again  upon  the  foe,  seized 
him  by  the  throat  or  the  arm,  and  (I  cannot  improve  on 
the  phrase)  "threw  him  away."  After  all  four  princes 
were  thus  disposed  of  I  left,  being  assured  of  a  happy 
ending  by  the  account  of  the  concluding  scene:  "The 
Prince  then  took  the  Moon  Princess  to  his  father's 
kingdom,  where  he  was  married  to  her  amidst  great 
rejoicings." 

Comment  perhaps  is  superfluous.  But  as  I  went 
home  in  my  rickshaw  my  mind  went  back  to  those  even- 
ings in  India  when  I  had  seen  Indian  boys  perform  to 
Indian  music,  dances  and  plays  in  honour  of  Krishna, 
and  to  the  Bengal  village  where  the  assembled  inhabi- 
tants had  sung  us  hymns  composed  by  their  native 
saint.  And  I  remembered  that  everywhere,  in  Egypt, 
in  India,  in  Java,  in  Sumatra,  in  Japan,  the  gramophone 
has  made  its  way;  that  an  inferior  kind  of  harmonium  is 
displacing  the  native  instruments;  and  that  the  bioscope 
—  that  great  instrument  of  education  —  is  familiarising 
the  peasants  of  the  East  with  all  that  is  most  vulgar 

[47 1 


APPEARANCES 

and  most  shoddy  in  the  humour  and  sentiment  of  the 
West. 

The  Westernising  of  the  East  must  come,  no  doubt, 
and  ought  to  come.  But  in  the  process  what  by-products 
of  waste,  or  worse!  Once,  surely,  there  must  have  been 
a  genuine  "Malay  theatre."  This  is  what  Europe  has 
made  of  it. 


U8J 


PART  II 
CHINA 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  CHINA 

Some  recent  travellers  have  expressed  disappointment 
or  even  disgust  with  what  they  saw  or  learned  or  guessed 
of  China.  My  own  first  impression  is  quite  contrary. 
The  climate,  it  is  true,  for  the  moment,  inclines  one  to 
gloomy  views.  An  icy  wind,  a  black  sky,  a  cold  drizzle. 
March  in  England  could  hardly  do  worse.  But  in  Can- 
ton one  almost  forgets  all  that.  Imagine  a  maze  of  nar- 
row streets,  more  confused  and  confusing  than  Venice; 
high  houses  (except  in  the  old  city) ;  and  hanging  parallel 
to  these,  in  long,  vertical  lines,  flags  and  wooden  signs 
inscribed  with  huge,  Chinese  characters,  gold  on  black, 
gold  on  red,  red  or  blue  on  white,  a  blaze  of  colour;  and 
under  it,  pouring  in  a  ceaseless  stream,  yellow  faces, 
black  heads,  blue  jackets  and  trousers,  all  on  foot  or  borne 
on  chairs,  not  a  cart  or  carriage,  rarely  a  pony,  nobody 
crowding,  nobody  hustling  or  jostling,  an  even  flow  of 
cheerful  humanity,  inexhaustible,  imperturbable,  con- 
vincing one  at  first  sight  of  the  truth  of  all  one  has  heard 
of  the  order,  independence,  and  vigour  of  this  extraor- 
dinary people.  The  shops  are  high  and  spacious,  level  with 
the  street,  not,  as  in  India,  raised  on  little  platforms;  and 

[51! 


APPEARANCES 

commonly,  within,  they  are  cut  across  by  a  kind  of  arch 
elaborately  carved  and  blazing  with  gold.  Every  trade  mav 
be  seen  plying  —  jade-cutters,  cloth-rollers,  weavers,  ring- 
makers,  rice-pounders,  a  thousand  others.  Whole  animals, 
roasted,  hang  before  the  butchers'  shops;  ducks,  pigs  — even 
we  saw  a  skinned  tiger!  The  interest  is  inexhaustible;  and 
one  is  lucky  if  one  does  not  return  with  a  light  purse  and  a 
hea\'y  burden  of  forged  curios.  Even  the  American  tourist, 
so  painfully  in  evidence  at  the  hotel,  is  lost,  drowned  in  this 
native  sea.  He  passes  in  his  chair;  but,  like  one's  self,  he  is 
only  a  drop  m  the  ocean.  Canton  is  China,  as  Benares  is 
India.     And  that  conjunction  of  ideas  set  me  thinking- 

To  come  from  India  to  China  is  like  waking  from  a 
dream.  Often  in  India  I  felt  that  I  was  in  an  enchanted 
land.  Melancholy,  monotony,  austerity;  a  sense  as  of 
perennial  frost,  spite  of  the  light  and  heat;  a  lost  region 
peopled  with  visionary  forms;  a  purgatory  of  souls  doing 
penance  till  the  hour  of  deliverance  shall  strike;  a  limbo, 
lovely  but  phantasmal,  unearthly,  over-earthly  —  that 
is  the  kind  of  impression  India  left  on  my  mind.  I  reach 
China,  awake,  and  rub  my  eyes.  This,  of  course,  is  the 
real  world.  This  is  every-day.  Good  temper,  industry, 
intelligence.  Nothing  abnormal  or  overstrained.  The 
natural  man,  working,  marrying,  begetting  and  rearing 
children,  growing  middle-aged,  growing  old,  dying  —  and 
that  is  all.  Here  it  is  broad  daylight;  but  in  India,  moon 
or  stars,  or  a  subtler  gleam  from  some  higher  heaven. 
Recall,  for  example,  Benares  —  the  fantastic  buildings 

[52] 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  CHINA 

rising  and  falling  like  a  sea,  the  stairs  running  up  to  in- 
finity, the  sacred  river,  the  sages  meditating  on  its  banks, 
the  sacrificial  ablutions,  the  squealing  temple-pipes,  and, 
in  the  midst  of  this,  columns  of  smoke,  as  the  body  returns  to 
the  elements  and  the  soul  to  God.  This  way  of  disposing  of 
the  dead,  when  the  first  shock  is  over,  lingers  in  the  mind  as 
something  eminently  religious.  Death  and  dissolution  take 
place  in  the  midst  of  life,  for  death  is  no  more  a  mystery 
than  life.  In  the  open  air,  in  the  press  of  men,  the  soul 
takes  flight.  She  is  no  stranger,  for  everything  is  soul  — 
houses,  trees,  men,  the  elements  into  which  the  body  is  re- 
solved. Death  is  not  annihilation,  it  is  change  of  form; 
and  through  all  changes  of  form  the  essence  persists. 

But  now  turn  back  to  Canton.  We  pass  the  shops 
of  the  coflin-makers.  We  linger.  But  "No  stop,"  says 
our  guide;  "better  coffins  soon."  "Soon"  is  what  the 
guide-books  call  the  "City  of  the  Dead."  A  number  of 
little  chapels;  and  laid  in  each  a  great  lacquered  coffin  in 
which  the  dead  man  lives.  I  say  "lives  "  advisedly,  for 
there  is  set  for  his  use  a  table  and  a  chair,  and  every  morn- 
ing he  is  provided  with  a  cup  of  tea.  A  bunch  of  paper, 
yellow  and  white,  symbolises  his  money;  and  perhaps  a 
couple  of  figures  represent  attendants.  There  he  lives, 
quite  simply  and  naturally  as  he  had  always  lived,  until 
the  proper  time  and  place  is  discovered  in  which  he  may 
be  buried.  It  may  be  months;  it  may  be,  or  rather,  might 
have  been,  years;  for  I  am  told  that  a  reforming  Govern-^ 
ment  has  limited  the  time  to  six  months.    And  after 

[53] 


APPEARANCES 

burial?  Why,  presumably  he  lives  still.  But  not  with 
the  life  of  the  universal  soul.  Oh,  no !  There  have  been 
mystics  in  China,  but  the  Chinese  are  not  mystical.  What 
he  was  he  still  is,  an  eating  and  drinking  creature,  and,  one 
might  even  conjecture,  a  snob.  For  if  one  visits  the  family 
chapel  of  the  Changs  —  another  of  the  sights  of  Canton 
—  one  sees  ranged  round  the  walls  hundreds  of  little 
tablets,  painted  green  and  inscribed  in  gold.  These  are 
the  memorials  of  the  deceased.  And  they  are  arranged  in 
three  classes,  those  who  pay  most  being  in  the  first  and 
those  who  pay  least  in  the  third.  One  can  even  reserve 
one's  place  —  first,  second,  or  third  —  while  one  is  still 
alive,  by  a  white  tablet.  You  die,  and  the  green  is  sub- 
stituted. And  so,  while  you  yet  live,  you  may  secure 
your  social  status  after  death.  How  —  how  British! 
Yes,  the  word  is  out;  and  I  venture  to  record  a  suspicion 
that  has  long  been  maturing  in  my  mind.  The  Chinese 
are  not  only  Western;  among  the  Western  they  are  Eng- 
lish. Their  minds  move  as  ours  do;  they  are  practical, 
sensible,  reasonable.  And  that  is  why  —  as  it  would 
seem  —  they  have  more  sympathy  with  Englishmen,  if 
not  with  the  English  Government,  than  with  any  other 
Westerners.  East  may  be  East  and  West  West,  though 
I  very  much  doubt  it.  But  if  there  be  any  truth  in  the 
aphorism,  we  must  define  our  terms.  The  East  must  be 
confined  to  India,  and  China  included  in  the  West.  That 
as  a  preliminary  correction.  I  say  nothing  yet  about 
Japan.    But  I  shall  have  more  to  say,  I  hope,  about  China. 

l54l 


n 

NANKING 

The  Chinese,  one  is  still  told,  cannot  and  will  not  change. 
On  the  other  hand,  Professor  Ross  writes  a  book  entitled 
The  Changing  Chinese.  And  anyone  may  see  that  the 
Chinese  educated  abroad  are  transformed,  at  any  rate 
externally,  out  of  all  recognition.  In  Canton  I  met  some 
of  the  officials  of  the  new  Government;  and  found  them,  to 
the  outward  sense,  pure  Americans.  The  dress,  the 
manners,  the  accent,  the  intellectual  outfit  —  all  complete! 
Whether,  in  some  mysterious  sense,  they  remain  Chinese 
at  the  core  I  do  not  presume  to  affirm  or  deny.  But  an 
external  transformation  so  complete  must  imply  some 
inward  change.  Foreign  residents  in  China  deplore  the 
foreign-educated  product.  I  have  met  some  who  almost 
gnash  their  teeth  at  "  young  China."  But  this  seems 
rather  hard  on  China.  For  nearly  a  century  foreigners 
have  been  exhorting  her,  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet, 
to  adopt  Western  ways  and  Western  ideas.  And  when 
she  begins  to  do  so,  the  same  people  turn  round  and 
accuse  her  of  unpardonable  levity  and  treachery  to  her 
own  traditions.  What  do  foreigners  want?  the  Chinese 
may  well  ask.    I  am  afraid  the  true  answer  is,  that  they 


APPEARANCES 

want  nothing  but  concessions,  interest  on  loans,  and 
trade  profits,  at  all  and  every  cost  to  China. 

But  I  must  not  deviate  into  politics.  What  suggested 
this  train  of  thought  was  the  student-guide  supplied 
me  at  Nanking  by  the  American  missionary  college. 
There  he  was,  complete  American;  and,  I  fear  I  must 
add,  boring  as  only  Americans  can  bore.  Still,  he  showed 
me  Nanking,  and  Nanking  is  worth  seeing,  though  the 
interest  of  it  is  somewhat  tragic.  A  wall  20  to  40  feet 
thick,  40  to  90  feet  high,  and  22  miles  in  circuit  (I  take 
these  figures  on  trust)  encloses  an  area  larger  than  that 
of  any  other  Chinese  city.  But  the  greater  part  of  this 
area  is  fields  and  ruins.  You  pass  through  the  city  gate 
in  the  train,  and  find  yourself  in  the  country.  You  alight, 
and  you  are  still  in  the  country.  A  carriage  takes  you, 
in  time,  to  the  squalid  village,  or  series  of  villages,  where 
are  housed  the  350,000  inhabitants  of  modem  Nanking. 
Among  them  are  quartered  the  khaki-clad  soldiers  of  new 
China,  the  new  national  flag  draped  at  the  gate  of  their 
barracks.  Meantime  old  China  swarms,  unregenerate, 
in  the  narrow  little  streets,  chaffering,  chattering,  laugh- 
ing in  its  rags  as  though  there  had  never  been  a  siege,  a 
surrender,  and  a  revolution.  Beggars  display  their  stumps 
and  their  sores,  grovelling  on  the  ground  like  brutes. 
Ragged  children  run  for  miles  beside  the  carriage,  singing 
for  alms;  and  stop  at  last,  laughing,  as  though  it  had  been 
a  good  joke  to  run  so  far  and  get  nothing  for  it.  One 
monument  in  all  this  scene  of  squalor  arrests  attention 

[56] 


NANKING 

—  the  now  disused  examination  hall.  It  is  a  kind  of 
rabbit-warren  of  tiny  cells,  six  feet  deep,  four  feet  broad, 
and  six  feet  high;  row  upon  row  of  them,  opening  on  nar- 
row, unroofed  corridors;  no  doors  now,  nor,  I  should 
suppose,  at  any  time,  for  it  would  be  impossible  to  breathe 
in  these  boxes  if  they  had  Uds.  Here,  for  a  week  or  a 
fortnight,  the  candidates  sat  and  excogitated,  unable  to 
lie  down  at  night,  sleeping,  if  they  could,  in  their  chairs. 
And  no  wonder  if,  every  now  and  again,  one  of  them  incon- 
tinently died  and  was  hauled  out,  a  corpse,  through  a 
hole  in  the  wall;  or  went  mad  and  ran  amuck  among  ex- 
aminers and  examinees.  For  centuries,  as  is  well  known, 
this  system  selected  the  rulers  of  China;  and  whole  Uves, 
from  boyhood  to  extreme  old  age,  were  spent  in  preparing 
for  the  examinations.  Now  all  this  is  abolished;  and  some 
people  appear  to  regret  it.  Once  more,  what  do  the  for- 
eigners want? 

The  old  imperial  city,  where  once  the  Ming  dynasty 
reigned,  was  destroyed  in  the  Taiping  Rebellion.  The 
Tartar  city,  where  before  the  revolution  3000  mandarins 
lived  on  their  pensions,  was  burnt  in  the  siege  of  191 1. 
Of  these  cities  nothing  remains  but  their  huge  walls  and 
gates  and  the  ruins  of  their  houses.  The  principal  in- 
terest of  Nanking,  the  so-called  "Ming  tombs,"  lies 
outside  the  walls.  And  the  interest  is  not  the  tombs, 
but  the  road  to  them.  It  is  lined  by  huge  figures  carved 
out  of  monoliths.  Brutes  first  —  lions,  camels,  elephants, 
horses,  a  pair  of  each  lying  down  and  a  pair  standings 

[57] 


APPEARANCES 

then  human  figures,  military  and  civil  officers.  What 
they  symbolise  I  cannot  tell.  They  are  said  to  guard 
the  road.  And  very  impressive  they  are  in  the  solitude. 
Not  so  what  they  lead  to,  which  is  merely  a  hill,  artificial, 
I  suppose,  piled  on  a  foundation  of  stone.  Once,  my 
guide  informed  me,  there  was  a  door  giving  admission; 
and  within,  a  complete  house,  with  all  its  furniture, 
in  stone.  But  the  door  is  sealed,  and  for  centuries 
no  one  has  explored  the  interior.  I  suggested  excava- 
tion, but  was  told  the  superstition  of  the  inhabitants 
forbade  it.  "Besides,"  said  my  guide,  "the  Chinese 
are  not  curious."  I  wonder?  Whether  or  no  they  are 
curious,  they  are  certainly  superstitious.  Apropos,  a 
gunboat  ran  aground  on  the  Yangtse.  The  river  was 
falling,  and  there  seemed  no  chance  of  getting  of!  for 
months.  The  officers  made  up  their  minds  to  it,  and 
fraternised  with  the  priest  of  a  temple  on  the  bank.  The 
priest  one  day  asked  for  a  photograph  of  the  boat.  They 
gave  him  one,  and  he  asked  them  to  dinner.  After  din- 
ner he  solemnly  burnt  the  photograph  to  his  god.  And 
—  "  would  you  believe  it? "  —  next  day  a  freshet  came 
down  and  set  the  vessel  afloat.  Which  shows  how  super- 
stitions are  generated  and  maintained  in  a  world  so  little 
subject  to  law,  on  the  surface  of  it,  as  ours. 

My  anecdote  has  brought  me  to  the  Yangtse,  and  it  is 
on  a  river-boat  that  I  write.  Hour  after  hour  there 
passes  by  the  panorama  of  hills  and  plain,  of  green  wheat 
and  yellow  rape,  of  the  great  flood  with  its  flocks  of  wild 

[58] 


NANKING 

duck,  of  fishers'  cabins  on  the  shore  and  mud-built,  thatched 
huts,  of  junks  with  bamboo-threaded  sails  skimming  on 
flat  bottoms,  of  high  cliffs  with  monasteries  perched  on 
perilous  ledges,  of  changing  light  and  shade,  of  burning 
sunset  and  the  stars.  Travelling  by  river  is  the  best  of 
all  travelling  —  smooth,  slow,  quiet,  and  soothingly 
contemplative.  All  China,  I  am  informed  by  some  pessi- 
mists, is  in  a  state  of  anarchy,  actual  or  latent.  It  may 
be.  But  it  is  difficult  to  believe  it  among  these  primitive, 
industrious  people  living  and  working  as  they  have  lived 
and  worked  for  4000  years.  Any  other  country,  I  suppose, 
in  such  a  crisis  as  the  present,  would  be  seething  with 
civil  war.  But  China?  When  one  puts  the  point  to  the 
foreigner  who  has  been  talking  of  anarchy  he  says,  "Ah! 
but  the  Chinese  are  so  peaceable!  They  don't  mind 
whether  there's  a  Government  or  no.  They  just  go  on 
without  it!"  Exactly!  That  is  the  wonderful  thing. 
But  even  that  seems  to  annoy  the  foreigner.  Once  more, 
what  does  he  want?    I  give  it  up. 


[591 


in 

IN  THE  YANGTSE  GORGES 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  gorge  poetically  named  "Ox 
Liver  and  Horse  Lungs"  I  watched  the  steamboat 
smoking  and  splashing  upstream.  She  had  traversed 
in  a  few  hours  the  distance  I,  in  my  houseboat,  had  taken 
three  days  to  cover;  and  certainly  she  is  much  more  con- 
venient and  much  more  comfortable.  That,  however,  is 
not  necessarily  an  advantage.  What  may  be  urged  with 
some  force  is  that  travelling  by  steamboat  is  more  humane. 
It  dispenses  with  human  labour  of  a  peculiarly  dangerous 
and  strenuous  kind.  Twenty-eight  boatmen  are  attached 
to  my  single  person.  A  big  junk  may  have  a  crew  of  two 
hundred.  When  the  wind  is  not  fair  they  must  row  or  tow; 
and  towing  is  not  like  towing  along  the  Thames !  Suddenly 
you  see  the  men  leap  out  and  swarm  up  a  precipice.  Pres- 
ently they  appear  high  above,  creeping  with  the  line  along 
a  ledge  of  rock.  And  your  "boy"  remarks  nonchalantly, 
"Plenty  coolie  fall  here.  Too  high  place."  Or  they  are 
clambering  over  boulders,  one  or  two  told  off  to  disentangle 
the  line  wherever  it  catches.  Or  they  are  struggling  along 
a  greasy  slope,  their  bare  feet  gripping  the  mud,  hardly 
able  to  advance  a  step  or  even  to  hold  their  own.     As  a 

l6o] 


IN  THE  YANGTSE  GORGES 

labour-saving  machine  one  must  welcome  the  advent  of 
the  steamboat,  as  one  is  constrained  to  welcome  even  that 
of  the  motor-omnibus.  But  from  the  traveller's  point  of 
view  it  is  different.  Railways  and  steamboats  enable  more 
of  us  to  travel,  and  to  travel  farther,  in  space.  But  in  ex- 
perience he  travels  farthest  who  travels  the  slowest.  A 
mediaeval  student  or  apprentice  walking  through  Europe 
on  foot  really  did  see  the  world.  A  modern  tourist  sees 
nothing  but  the  inside  of  hotels.  Unless,  that  is,  he 
chooses  to  walk,  or  ride,  or  even  cycle.  Then  it  is  different. 
Then  he  begins  to  see,  as  now  I,  from  my  houseboat, 
begin  to  see  China.  Not  profoundly,  of  course,  but  some- 
how intimately.  For  instance,  while  my  crew  eat  their 
midday  rice,  I  stroll  up  to  the  neighbouring  village.  Con- 
trary to  all  I  have  been  taught  to  expect,  I  find  it  charming, 
picturesque,  not  so  dirty  after  all,  not  so  squalid,  not  so 
poor.  The  people,  too,  who,  one  thought,  would  insult  or 
mob  the  foreigner,  either  take  no  notice  or,  if  you  greet 
them,  respond  in  the  friendliest  way.  They  may,  of 
course,  be  explaining  to  one  another  that  you  are  a  foreign 
devil,  but  nothing  in  their  countenance  or  manner  suggests 
it.  The  children  are  far  better-mannered  than  in  most 
European  countries.  They  may  follow  you,  and  chatter 
and  laugh;  but  at  least  they  have  not  learnt  to  beg.  Curi- 
osity they  have,  and  gaiety,  but  I  detect  no  sign  of  hostil- 
ity. I  walk  down  the  long  street,  with  its  shops  and  roomy 
houses  —  far  roomier  and  more  prosperous-looking  than 
most  Indian  villages  —  and  come  to  the  temple.  Smilingly 

[6il 


APPEARANCES 

I  am  invited  to  enter.  There  are  no  mysteries  in  Chinese 
religion.  I  begin  to  wonder,  indeed,  whether  there  is  any 
religion  left.  For  everywhere  I  find  the  temples  and 
monasteries  either  deserted  or  turned  into  schools  or 
barracks.  This  one  is  deserted.  It  is  like  a  series  of  lumber- 
rooms,  full  of  dusty  idols.  The  idols  were  once  gaudy, 
brightly  painted  "to  look  like  life,"  with  beards  and 
whiskers  of  real  hair.  But  now  their  splendour  is  dimmed. 
The  demons  scowl  to  no  purpose.  To  no  purpose  the 
dragons  coil.  No  trespasser  threatens  the  god  behind  his 
dingy  curtains.  In  one  chamber  only  a  priest  kneels  before 
the  shrine  and  chants  out  of  a  book  while  he  taps  a  bronze 
vessel  with  a  little  hammer.  Else,  solitude,  vacuity,  and 
silence.  Is  he  Buddhist  or  Taoist?  I  have  no  language  in 
which  to  ask.  I  can  only  accept  with  mute  gestures  the 
dusty  seat  he  offers  and  the  cup  of  lukewarm  tea.  What 
has  happened  to  religion?  So  far  as  I  can  make  out,  some- 
thing like  the  "disestablishment  of  the  Church."  The 
Republic  has  been  at  work;  and  in  the  next  village  I  see 
what  it  has  been  doing.  For  there  the  temple  is  converted 
into  a  school.  Delightedly  the  scholars  show  me  round. 
On  the  outside  wall,  for  him  who  runs  to  read,  are  scored 
up  long  addition  sums  in  our  Western  figures.  Inside,  the 
walls  are  hung  with  drawings  of  birds  and  beasts,  of  the 
human  skeleton  and  organs,  even  of  bacteria!  There  are 
maps  of  China  and  of  the  world.  The  children  even  pro- 
duce in  triumph  an  English  reading-book,  though  I  must 
confess  they  do  not  seem  to  have  profited  by  it  much. 

[62]: 


IN  THE  YANGTSE  GORGES 

Still,  they  can  say  "cat"  when  you  show  them  a  picture 
of  the  creature;  which  is  more  than  I  could  do  in  Chinese. 
And  China  does  not  change?  Wait  a  generation!  This, 
remember,  is  a  tiny  village  in  the  heart  of  the  country, 
more  than  looo  miles  from  the  coast.  And  this  is  hap- 
pening all  over  the  Celestial  Empire,  I  suppose.  I  start  to 
return  to  my  boat,  but  have  not  gone  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
before  I  hear  a  shout,  and  looking  back  find  half  the  school 
following  me  and  escorting  their  teacher,  who  speaks  Eng- 
lish. He  regrets  to  have  missed  my  visit;  will  I  not  return 
and  let  him  show  me  the  school?  I  excuse  myself,  and  he 
walks  with  me  to  the  boat,  making  what  conversation  he 
can.  One  remark  I  remember  —  "China  a  good  place 
now;  China  a  republic."  And  I  thought,  as  we  exchanged 
cards,  that  he  represented  the  Republic  more  essentially 
than  the  politicians  whom  foreigners  so  severely  criticise. 
Anyhow,  Republic  or  no,  China  is  being  transformed.  And 
there  is  something  other  than  steamboats  to  attest  it. 

Which  brings  me  back  to  my  starting-point.  On  the 
steamboat  you  have  no  adventures.  But  on  the  house- 
boat you  do.  For  instance,  the  other  day  the  rope  broke 
as  we  were  towing  up  a  rapid,  and  down  we  dashed,  turn- 
ing round  and  round,  and  annihilating  in  five  minutes  the 
labour  of  an  hour.  I  was  afraid,  I  confess;  but  the  boat- 
men took  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  some  way,  incompre- 
hensible to  me,  they  got  us  into  the  bank,  and,  looking  up, 
the  first  thing  I  saw  was  an  embankment  in  construction — 
the  railwayfrom  Ichang  to  Chungking.   When  it  is  finished 

i63] 


APPEARANCES 

we  shall  go  by  train  —  not  even  by  steamboat  —  and  so  see 
nothing  except  tunnels.  Certainly,  we  shall  not  be  com- 
pelled to  pass  the  night  in  a  small  village;  nor  permitted 
to  see  the  sunset  behind  these  lovely  hills  and  the  moon 
rising  over  the  river  between  the  cliffs  of  the  gorge.  Nor 
shall  we  then  be  delayed,  as  I  was  yesterday,  till  the  water 
should  run  down,  and  so  tempted  to  walk  into  the  country. 
I  made  for  a  side  valley,  forded  a  red  torrent,  and  found 
myself  among  fields  and  orchards;  green  of  mulberries, 
green  of  fruit  trees,  green  of  young  com;  and  above,  the 
purple  hills,  with  all  their  bony  structure  showing  under  the 
skin  of  soil.  I  followed  a  high  path,  greeted  by  the  peasants 
I  met  with  a  charming  smile  and  that  delightful  gesture 
whereby,  instead  of  shaking  your  hand,  they  clasp  theirs  and 
shake  them  at  you.  I  came  at  last  to  a  solitary  place,  and, 
sitting  down,  watched  the  evening  light  on  the  mountains; 
and  they  seemed  to  be  saying  something.    What  ? 

"Rocks  that  are  bones,  earth  that  is  flesh,  what,  what  do  you  mean 
Eyeing  me  silently  ? 

Streams  that  are  voices,  what,  what  do  you  say? 
You  are  poiuing  an  ocean  into  a  cup.    Yet  pour,  that  all  it  can  hold 
May  at  least  be  water  of  yours." 

At  dusk  I  got  back  to  the  river,  and  found  that  a  wind 
had  sprung  up  and  the  junks  were  trying  to  pass  the  rapid. 
There  must  have  been  fifty  of  them  crowded  together. 
They  could  only  pass  one  by  one;  and  the  scene  was  pan- 
demonium. The  Chinese  are  even  noisier  than  the  Italians, 

[64] 


IN  THE  YANGTSE  GORGES 

and  present  the  same  appearance  of  confusion.  But  in  some 
mysterious  way  an  order  is  always  getting  evolved.  On 
this  occasion  it  seemed  to  be  perfectly  understood  which 
boat  should  go  first.  And  presently  there  she  was,  in  mid- 
rapid,  apparently  not  advancing  an  inch,  the  ropes  held 
taut  from  a  causeway  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  At  last  the 
strain  suddenly  ceased,  and  she  moved  quickly  upstream. 
Another  followed.  Then  it  was  dark.  And  we  had  to 
pass  the  night,  after  all,  tossing  uneasily  in  the  rough 
water.  Soon  after  dawn  we  started  again.  I  went  across 
to  the  causeway,  and  watched  the  trackers  at  work  — 
twenty  each  on  two  ropes,  hardly  advancing  a  step  in  five 
minutes.  Then  the  boat's  head  swung  into  shore,  the 
tension  ceased ;  something  had  happened.  I  waited  half  an 
hour  or  so.  "Nothing  doing,"  in  the  expressive  American 
phrase.  Then  I  went  back.  We  had  sprung  a  leak,  and 
my  cabin  was  converted  into  a  swimming-bath.  Another 
hour  or  so  repairing  this.  Then  the  rope  had  to  be  brought 
back  and  attached  again.  At  last  we  started  for  the  second 
time,  and  in  half  an  hour  got  safely  through  the  hundred 
yards  of  racing  waters  into  the  bank  above.  At  ten  I  got 
my  breakfast,  and  we  started  to  sail  with  a  fair  wind.  It 
dropped.  Rain  came  on.  My  crew  (as  always  in  that 
conjuncture)  put  up  their  awning  and  struck  work.  So 
here  we  are  at  i  p.m.,  in  a  heavy  thunder-shower,  a  mile 
from  the  place  we  tried  to  leave  at  six  o'clock  this  morning. 
This  is  the  ancient  method  of  travelling  —  4000  years  old, 
I  suppose.    It  is  very  inconvenient!   Oh,  yes  —  BUT! 

[65] 


IV 

PEKIN 

Professor  Giles  tells  us,  no  doubt  truly,  that  the 
Chinese  are  not  a  religious  nation.  No  nation,  I  think, 
ever  was,  unless  it  be  the  Indians.  But  religious  impulses 
sweep  over  nations  and  pass  away,  leaving  deposits  — 
rituals,  priesthoods,  and  temples.  Such  an  impulse  once 
swept  over  China,  in  the  form  of  Buddhism;  and  I  am  now 
visiting  its  deposit  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Pekin.  Scat- 
tered over  the  hills  to  the  west  of  the  city  are  a  number  of 
monastery  temples.  Some  are  deserted;  some  are  let  as 
villas  to  Europeans;  some,  Uke  the  one  where  I  am  staying, 
have  still  their  complement  of  monks  —  in  this  temple,  I 
am  told,  some  three  to  four  hundred.  But  neither  here  nor 
anywhere  have  I  seen  anything  that  suggests  vitality  in 
the  religion.  I  entered  one  of  the  temples  yesterday  at 
dusk  and  watched  the  monks  chanting  and  processing 
round  a  shrine  from  which  loomed  in  the  shadow  a  gigantic 
bronze-gold  Buddha.  They  began  to  giggle  like  children 
at  the  entrance  of  the  foreigner  and  never  took  their  eyes 
off  us.  Later,  individual  monks  came  running  round  the 
shrines,  beating  a  gong  as  though  to  call  the  attention  of 
the  deity,  and  shouting  a  few  words  of  perfunctory  praise 

[66] 


PEKIN 

or  prayer.  Irreverence  more  complete  I  have  not  seen 
even  in  Italy,  nor  beggary  more  shameless.  Such  is  the 
latter  end  of  the  gospel  of  Buddha  in  China.  It  seems 
better  that  he  should  sit  deserted  in  his  Indian  caves 
than  be  dishonoured  by  such  mummeries. 

But  once  it  must  have  been  otherwise.  Once  this  re- 
ligion was  alive.  And  then  it  was  that  men  chose  these 
exquisite  sites  for  contemplation.  The  Chinese  Buddhist 
had  clearly  the  same  sense  for  the  beauty  of  nature 
that  the  Italian  Franciscans  had.  In  secluded  woods 
and  copses  their  temples  nestle,  courts  and  terraces 
commanding  superb  views  over  the  great  plain  to 
Pekin.  The  architecture  is  delicate  and  lovely;  tiled  roofs, 
green  or  gold  or  grey,  cornices  elaborately  carved  and 
painted  in  lovely  harmonies  of  blue  and  green;  fine  trees 
religiously  preserved;  the  whole  building  so  planned  and 
set  as  to  enhance,  not  destroy,  the  lines  and  colour  of  the 
landscape.  To  wander  from  one  of  these  temples  to  an- 
other, to  rest  in  them  in  the  heat  of  the  day  and  sleep  in 
them  at  night,  is  to  taste  a  form  of  travel  impossible  in 
Europe  now,  though  familiar  enough  there  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  Specially  delightful  is  it  to  come  at  dusk  upon  a 
temple  apparently  deserted;  to  hear  the  bell  tinkle  as  the 
wind  moves  it;  to  enter  a  dusky  hall  and  start  to  see  in  a 
dark  recess  huge  figures,  fierce  faces,  glimmering  maces 
and  swords  that  seem  to  threaten  the  impious  intruder. 

This  morning  there  was  a  festival,  and  the  people 
from  the  country  crowded  into  the  temple.    Very  bright 

[671 


APPEARANCES 

and  gay  they  looked  in  their  gala  clothes.  The  women 
especially  were  charming;  painted,  it  is  true,  but  painted 
quite  frankly,  to  better  nature,  not  to  imitate  her.  Their 
cheeks  were  like  peaches  or  apples,  and  their  dresses  cor- 
respondingly gay.  Why  they  had  come  did  not  appear; 
not,  apparently,  to  worship,  for  their  mood  was  anything 
but  religious.  Some,  perhaps,  came  to  carry  away  a  little 
porcelain  boy  or  girl  as  guarantee  of  a  baby  to  come.  For 
the  Chinese,  by  appropriate  rites,  can  determine  the  sex 
of  a  child  —  a  secret  unknown  as  yet  to  the  doctors  of 
Europe!  Some,  perhaps,  came  to  cure  their  eyes,  and 
will  leave  at  the  shrine  a  picture  on  linen  of  the  organs 
affected.  Some  are  merely  there  for  a  jaunt,  to  see  the 
sights  and  the  country.  We  saw  a  group  on  their  way 
home,  climbing  a  steep  hill  for  no  apparent  purpose  except 
to  look  at  the  view.  What  English  agricultural  labourer 
would  do  as  much?  But  the  Chinese  are  not  "agri- 
cultural labourers";  they  are  independent  peasants; 
and  a  people  so  gay,  so  friendly,  so  well-mannered  and 
self-respecting  I  have  found  nowhere  else  in  the  world. 

The  country  roimd  Pekin  has  the  beauty  we  associate 
with  Italy.  First  the  plain,  with  its  fresh,  spring  green, 
its  dusty  paths,  its  grey  and  orange  villages,  its  cypress 
groves,  its  pagodas,  its  memorial  slabs.  Then  the  hills, 
swimming  in  amethyst,  bare  as  those  of  Umbria,  fine 
and  clean  in  colour  and  form.  For  this  beauty  I  was 
unprepared.  I  have  even  read  that  there  is  no  natural 
beauty  in   China.    And  I  was   unprepared  for  Pekin, 

[68] 


PEKIN 

too.  How  can  I  describe  it?  At  this  time  of  year, 
seen  from  above,  it  is  like  an  immense  green  park.  You 
mount  the  tremendous  wall,  40  feet  high,  14  miles  round, 
as  broad  at  the  top  as  a  London  street,  and  you  look  over 
a  sea  of  spring-green  tree-tops,  from  which  emerge  the 
orange-gold  roofs  of  palaces  and  temples.  You  descend, 
and  find  the  great  roads  laid  out  by  Kubla  Khan,  running 
north  and  south,  east  and  west,  and  thick,  as  the  case 
may  be,  with  dust  or  mud;  and  opening  out  of  them  a 
maze  of  streets  and  lanes,  one-storyed  houses,  grey  walls 
and  roofs,  shop  fronts  all  ablaze  with  gilt  carving,  all 
trades  plying,  all  goods  selling,  rickshaws,  mule-carts 
canopied  with  blue,  swarming  pedestrians,  eight  hundred 
thousand  people  scurrying  like  ants  in  this  gigantic  frame- 
work of  Cyclopean  walls  and  gates.  Never  was  a  med- 
ley of  greatness  and  squalor  more  strange  and  impressive. 
One  quarter  only  is  commonplace,  that  of  the  Legations. 
There  is  the  Wagon-lits  Hotel,  with  its  cosmopolitan 
stream  of  Chinese  politicians,  European  tourists,  con- 
cession-hunters, and  the  like.  There  are  the  Americans, 
occupying  and  guarding  the  great  north  gate,  and  play- 
ing baseball  in  its  precincts.  There  are  the  Germans, 
the  Dutch,  the  French,  the  Italians,  the  Russians,  the 
Japanese;  and  there,  in  a  magnificent  Chinese  palace, 
are  the  British,  girt  by  that  famous  wall  of  the  siege  on 
which  they  have  characteristically  written  "Lest  we 
forget!"  Forget  what?  The  one  or  two  children  who 
died  in  the  Legation,  and  the  one  or  two  men  who  were 

[69I 


APPEARANCES 

killed?  Or  the  wholesale  massacre,  robbery,  and  devasta- 
tion which  followed  when  the  siege  was  relieved?  This 
latter,  I  fear,  the  Chinese  are  not  likely  to  forget  soon. 
Yet  it  wovild  be  better  if  they  could.  And  better  if  the 
Europeans  could  remember  much  that  they  forget  — 
could  remember  that  they  forced  their  presence  and  the 
trade  on  China  against  her  will;  that  their  treaties  were 
extorted  by  force,  and  their  loans  imposed  by  force,  since 
they  exacted  from  China  what  are  ironically  called  "  indem- 
nities "  which  she  could  not  pay  except  by  borrowing 
from  those  who  were  robbing  her.  If  Europeans  could 
remember  and  realise  these  facts  they  would  perhaps 
cease  to  complain  that  China  continues  to  evade  their 
demands  by  the  only  weapon  of  the  weak  —  cunning. 
When  you  have  knocked  a  man  down,  trampled  on  him, 
and  picked  his  pocket,  you  can  hardly  expect  him  to 
enter  into  social  relations  with  you  merely  because  you 
pick  him  up  and,  retaining  his  property,  propose  that 
you  should  now  be  friends  and  begin  to  do  business. 
The  obliquity  of  vision  of  the  European  residents  on 
all  these  points  is  extraordinary.  They  cannot  see 
that  wrong  has  been  done,  and  that  wrong  engenders 
wrong.  They  repeat  comfortable  formulae  about  the 
duplicity  and  evasiveness  of  the  Chinese;  they  charge 
them  with  dishonesty  at  the  very  moment  that  they 
are  dismembering  their  country;  they  attach  intoler- 
able conditions  to  their  loans,  and  then  complain  if  their 
victims  attempt  to  find  accommodation  elsewhere.    Of 

[70I 


PEKIN 

all  the  Powers  the  United  States  alone  have  shown 
some  generosity  and  fairness,  and  they  are  reaping  their 
reward  in  the  confidence  of  Young  China.  The  Americans 
had  the  intelligence  to  devote  some  part  of  the  excessive 
indemnity  they  exacted  after  the  Boxer  riots  to  educating 
Chinese  students  in  America.  Hundreds  of  these  young 
men  are  now  returned  to  China,  with  the  friendliest  feel- 
ing to  America,  and,  naturally,  anxious  to  develop  poli- 
tical and  commercial  relations  with  her  rather  than  with 
other  Powers.  British  trade  may  suffer  because.  British 
policy  has  been  less  generous.  But  British  trade,  I  sup- 
pose, would  sufifer  in  any  case.  For  the  British  continue 
to  maintain  their  ignorance  and  contempt  of  China  and 
all  things  Chinese,  while  Germans  and  Japanese  are 
travelling  and  studying  indefatigably  all  over  the  coun- 
try. "We  see  too  much  of  things  Chinese!"  was  the 
amazing  remark  made  to  me  by  a  business  man  in  Shang- 
hai. Too  much!  They  see  nothing  at  all,  and  want  to 
see  nothing.  They  live  in  the  treaty  ports,  dine,  dance, 
play  tennis,  race.  China  is  in  birth-throes,  and  they 
know  and  care  nothing.  A  future  in  China  is  hardly 
for  them. 


[71I 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  ABROAD 

To  WRITE  from  China  about  the  Englishman  may  seem 
an  odd  choice.  But  to  see  him  abroad  is  to  see  him  afresh. 
At  home  he  is  the  air  one  breathes;  one  is  unaware  of 
his  quaUties.  Against  a  background  of  other  races  you 
suddenly  perceive  him,  and  can  estimate  him  —  falla- 
ciously or  no  —  as  you  estimate  foreigners. 

So  seen,  the  Englishman  appears  as  the  eternal  school- 
boy. I  mean  no  insult;  I  mean  to  express  his  qualities  as 
well  as  his  defects.  He  has  the  pluck,  the  zest,  the  sense 
of  fair  play,  the  pubUc  spirit  of  oiu*  great  schools.  He  has 
also  their  narrowness  and  their  levity.  Enter  his  oflSce, 
and  you  will  find  him  not  hurried  or  worried,  not  scheming, 
skimping,  or  hustling,  but  cheery,  genial,  detached,  with 
an  air  of  playing  at  work.  As  likely  as  not,  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  he  will  have  asked  you  round  to  the  club,  and  of- 
fered you  a  whisky  and  soda.  Dine  with  him,  and  the 
talk  will  turn  on  golf  or  racing,  on  shooting,  fishing,  and 
the  gymkhana.  Or,  if  you  wish  to  divert  it,  you  must 
ask  him  definite  questions  about  matters  of  fact.  Prob- 
ably you  will  get  precise  and  intelhgent  replies.  But 
if  you  put  a  general  question  he  will  founder  resent- 

[72] 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  ABROAD 

fully;  and  if  you  generalise  yourself  you  will  see  him 
dismissing  you  as  a  windbag.  Of  the  religion,  the  politics, 
the  manners  and  customs  of  the  country  in  which  he  lives, 
he  will  know  and  care  nothing,  except  so  far  as  they  may 
touch  his  affairs.  He  will  never,  if  he  can  help  it,  leave  the 
limits  of  the  foreign  settlement.  Physically  he  oscillates 
between  his  home,  his  office,  the  club,  and  the  racecourse; 
mentally,  between  his  business  and  sport.  On  all  general 
topics  his  opinions  are  second  or  third  hand.  They  are  the 
ghosts  of  old  prejudices  imported  years  ago  from  England, 
or  taken  up  unexamined  from  the  English  community 
abroad.  And  these  opinions  pass  from  hand  to  hand  till 
they  are  as  similar  as  pebbles  on  the  shore.  In  an  hour  or 
so  you  will  have  acquired  the  whole  stock  of  ideas  current 
in  the  foreign  community  throughout  a  continent.  Your 
only  hope  of  new  light  is  in  particular  instances  and  illustra- 
tions.   And  these,  of  course,  may  be  had  for  the  asking. 

But  the  Englishman  abroad  in  some  points  is  the 
Englishman  at  his  best.  For  he  is  or  has  been  a  pioneer, 
at  any  rate  in  China.  And  pioneering  brings  out  his  most 
characteristic  qualities.  He  loves  to  decide  everything 
on  his  own  judgment,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  directly 
on  the  immediate  fact,  and  in  disregard  of  remoter  con- 
tingencies and  possibilities.  He  needs  adventure  to  bring 
out  his  powers,  and  only  really  takes  to  business  when 
business  is  something  of  a  "lark. "  To  combine  the  func- 
tions of  a  trader  with  those  of  an  explorer,  a  soldier,  and  a 
diplomat  is  what  he  really  enjoys.    So,  all  over  the  world, 

[73I 


APPEARANCES 

he  opens  the  ways,  and  others  come  in  to  reap  the  fruit  of 
his  labours.  This  is  true  in  things  intellectual  as  in  things 
practical.  In  science,  too,  he  is  a  pioneer.  Modem  ar- 
chaeology was  founded  by  English  travellers.  Darwin  and 
Wallace  and  Gallon  in  their  youth  pursued  adventure  as 
much  as  knowledge.  When  the  era  of  routine  arrives,  when 
laboratory  work  succeeds  to  field  work,  the  Englishman  is 
apt  to  retire  and  leave  the  job  to  the  German.  The  Eng- 
lishman, one  might  say,  "larks"  into  achievement,  the 
German  "grinds"  into  it.  The  one,  accordingly,  is  free- 
living,  genial,  generous,  careless;  the  other  laborious, 
exact,  routine-ridden.  It  is  hard  for  an  Englishman  to  be 
a  pedant;  it  is  not  easy  for  a  German  to  be  anything  else. 
For  philosophy  no  man  has  less  capacity  than  the  Eng- 
lishman. He  does  not  understand  even  how  such  ques- 
tions can  be  put,  still  less  how  anyone  can  pretend  to  answer 
them.  The  philosopher  wants  to  know  whether,  how,  and 
why  life  ought  to  be  lived  before  he  will  consent  to  live  it. 
The  Englishman  just  lives  ahead,  not  aware  that  there  is 
a  problem;  or  convinced  that,  if  there  is  one,  it  will  only 
be  solved  "by  walking."  The  philosopher  proceeds  from 
the  abstract  to  the  concrete.  The  Englishman  starts  with 
the  concrete,  and  may  or,  more  probably,  may  not  arrive 
at  the  abstract.  No  general  rules  are  of  any  use  to  him 
except  such  as  he  may  have  elaborated  for  himself  out  of 
his  own  experience.  That  is  why  he  mistrusts  education. 
For  education  teaches  how  to  think  in  general,  and  that 
isn't  what  he  wants  or  beUeves  in.    So,  when  he  gets  into 

[74] 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  ABROAD 

affairs,  he  discards  all  his  training  and  starts  again  at  the 
beginning,  learning  to  think,  if  he  ever  does  learn  it,  over 
his  own  particular  job.  And  his  own  way,  he  opines,  must 
be  the  right  way  for  every  one.  Hence  his  contempt 
and  even  indignation  for  individuals  or  nations  who  are 
moved  by  "ideas."  At  this  moment  his  annoyance  with 
the  leaders  of  "Young  China"  is  provoked  largely  by  the 
fact  that  they  are  proceeding  on  general  notions  of  how  a 
nation  should  be  governed  and  organised,  instead  of  start- 
ing with  the  particularities  of  their  own  society,  and  trying 
to  mend  it  piece  by  piece  and  from  hand  to  mouth.  Be- 
fore they  make  a  constitution,  he  thinks,  they  ought  to 
make  roads;  and  before  they  draw  up  codes,  to  extirpate 
consumption.  The  conclusion  lies  near  at  hand,  and  I  have 
heard  it  drawn  —  "What  they  want  is  a  few  centuries  of 
British  rule."  And,  indeed,  it  is  curious  how  constantly 
the  Englishman  abroad  is  opposed,  in  the  case  of  other 
nations,  to  all  the  institutions  and  principles  he  is  supposed 
to  be  proud  of  at  home.  Partly,  no  doubt,  this  is  due  to 
his  secret  or  avowed  belief  that  the  whole  world  ought  to 
be  governed  despotically  by  the  English.  But  partly  it  is 
because  he  does  not  believe  that  the  results  the  English 
have  achieved  can  be  achieved  in  any  other  way  than 
theirs.  They  arrived  at  them  without  intention  or  fore- 
sight, by  a  series  of  detached  steps,  each  taken  without 
prescience  of  the  one  that  would  follow.  So,  and  so  only* 
can  other  nations  arrive  at  them.  He  does  not  believe  in 
short  cuts,  nor  in  learning  by  the  experience  of  others. 

[75] 


APPEARANCES 

And  so  the  watchwords  "Liberty,"  "Justice,"  "Constitu- 
tion," so  dear  to  him  at  home,  leave  him  cold  abroad.  Or, 
rather,  they  make  him  very  warm,  but  warm  not  with  zeal, 
but  with  irritation. 

Never  was  such  a  pourer  of  cold  water  on  other  people's 
enthusiasms.  He  cannot  endure  the  profession  that  a  man 
is  moved  by  high  motives.  His  annoyance,  for  example, 
with  the  "anti-opium"  movement  is  not  due  to  the  fact 
that  he  supports  the  importation  into  China  of  Indian 
opium.  Very  commonly  he  does  not.  But  the  movement  is 
an  "agitation"  (dreadful  word!).  It  is  "got  up"  by  mis- 
sionaries. It  purports  to  be  based  on  moral  grounds,  and 
he  suspects  everything  that  so  purports.  Not  that  he  is 
not  himself  moved  by  moral  considerations.  Almost  in- 
variably he  is.  But  he  will  never  admit  it  for  himself,  and 
he  deeply  suspects  it  in  others.  The  words  "hypocrite," 
"humbug,"  "sentimentalist"  spring  readily  to  his  lips. 
But  let  him  work  off  his  steam,  sit  quiet  and  wait,  and  you 
will  find,  often  enough,  that  he  has  arrived  at  the  same 
conclusion  as  the  "sentimentalist"  — only,  of  course,  for 
quite  different  reasons!  For  intellect  he  has  little  use,  ex- 
cept so  far  as  it  issues  in  practical  results.  He  will  forgive 
a  man  for  being  intelligent  if  he  makes  a  fortune,  but  hardly 
otherwise.  Still,  he  has  a  queer,  half-contemptuous  ad- 
miration for  a  definite,  intellectual  accomplishment  which 
he  knows  it  is  hard  to  acquire  and  is  not  sure  he  could 
acquire  himself.  That,  for  instance,  is  his  attitude  to 
those  who  know  Chinese.    A  "sinologue,"  he  will  tell  you, 

[76] 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  ABROAD 

must  be  an  imbecile,  for  no  one  but  a  fool  would  give  so 
much  time  to  a  study  so  unprofitable.  Still,  in  a  way,  he 
is  proud  of  the  sinologue  —  as  the  public  school  is  proud 
of  a  boy  so  clever  as  to  verge  upon  insanity,  or  a  village 
is  proud  of  the  village  idiot.  Something  of  the  same  feeling, 
I  sometimes  think,  underlies  his  respect  for  Shakspere. 
"If  you  want  that  kind  of  thing,"  he  seems  to  say  to  the 
foreigner,  "and  it's  the  kind  of  thing  you  would  want,  we 
can  do  it,  you  see,  better  than  you  can!  " 

So  with  art.  He  is  never  a  connoisseur,  but  he  is  often 
a  collector.  Partly,  no  doubt,  because  there  is  money  in 
it,  but  that  is  a  secondary  consideration.  Mainly  be- 
cause collecting  and  collectors  appeal  to  his  sporting  in- 
stinct. His  knowledge  about  his  collection  will  be  precise 
and  definite,  whether  it  be  postage  stamps  or  pictures.  He 
will  know  all  about  it,  except  its  aesthetic  value.  That  he 
cannot  know,  for  he  cannot  see  it.  He  has  the^a^V  of  the 
dealer,  not  the  perception  of  the  amateur.  And  he  does 
not  know  or  believe  that  there  is  any  distinction  between 
them. 

But  these,  from  his  point  of  view,  are  trifles.  What  mat- 
ters it  that  he  has  pre-eminently  the  virtues  of  active  life. 
He  is  fair-minded,  and  this,  oddly,  in  spite  of  his  difficulty 
in  seeing  another  man's  point  of  view.  When  he  does  see 
it  he  respects  it.  Whereas  nimbler-witted  nations  see  it 
only  to  circumvent  and  cheat  it.  He  is  honest;  as  honest, 
at  least,  as  the  conditions  of  modern  business  permit.  He 
hates  bad  work,  even  when,  for  the  moment,  bad  work 

[77l 


APPEARANCES 

pays.  He  hates  skimping  and  sparing.  And  these  qualities 
of  his  make  it  hard  for  him  to  compete  with  rivals  less 
scrupulous  and  less  generous.  He  is  kind-hearted  —  much 
more  so  than  he  cares  to  admit.  And  at  the  bottom  of  all 
his  qualities  he  has  the  sense  of  duty.  He  will  shoulder 
loyally  all  the  obligations  he  has  undertaken  to  his  country, 
to  his  family,  to  his  employer,  to  his  employees.  The 
sense  of  duty,  indeed,  one  might  say  with  truth,  is  his 
religion.  For  on  the  rare  occasions  on  which  he  can  be 
persuaded  to  broach  such  themes  you  will  find,  I  think, 
at  the  bottom  of  his  mind  that  what  he  believes  in  is  Some- 
thing, somehow,  somewhere,  in  the  universe,  which  helps 
him,  and  which  he  is  helping,  when  he  does  right.  There 
must,  he  feels,  be  some  sense  in  life.  And  what  sense  would 
there  be  if  duty  were  nonsense? 

Poets,  artists,  philosophers  can  never  be  at  home  with 
the  Englishman.  His  qualities  and  his  defects  alike  are 
alien  to  them.  In  his  company  they  live  as  in  prison,  for 
it  is  not  an  air  in  which  wings  can  soar.  But  for  solid  walk- 
ing on  the  ground  he  has  not  his  equal.  The  phrase  "Sol- 
vitur  ambulando"  must  surely  have  been  coined  for  him. 
And  no  doubt  on  his  road  he  has  passed,  and  will  pass  again, 
the  wrecks  of  many  a  flying-machine. 


178] 


VI 

CHINA  IN  TRANSITION 

The  Chinese  Revolution  has  proceeded,  so  far,  with  less 
disturbance  and  bloodshed  than  any  great  revolution 
known  to  history.  There  has  been  little  serious  fighting 
and  little  serious  disorder;  nothing  comparable  to  that 
which  accompanied,  for  instance,  the  French  Revolution 
of  1789.  And  this,  no  doubt,  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
Chinese  are  alone  among  nations  of  the  earth  in  detesting 
violence  and  cultivating  reason.  Their  instinct  is  always 
to  compromise  and  save  everybody's  face.  And  this  is  the 
main  reason  why  Westerners  despise  them.  The  Chinese, 
they  aver,  have  "no  guts."  And  when  hard  pressed  as  to 
the  policy  of  the  Western  Powers  in  China,  they  will  some- 
times quite  frankly  confess  that  they  consider  the  West 
has  benefited  China  by  teaching  her  the  use  of  force.  That 
this  should  be  the  main  contribution  of  Christian  to  Pagan 
civilisation  is  one  of  the  ironies  of  history.  But  it  is  part 
of  the  greater  irony  which  gave  the  Christian  faith  to 
precisely  those  nations  whose  fundamental  instincts  and 
convictions  were  and  are  in  radical  antagonism  to  its 
teaching. 
Though,  however,  it  is  broadly  true  that  the  Chinese 

[79] 


APPEARANCES 

have  relied  on  reason  and  justice  in  a  way  and  to  a  degree 
which  is  inconceivable  in  the  West,  they  have  not  been 
without  their  share  of  original  sin.  Violence,  anarchy, 
and  corruption  have  played  a  part  in  their  history,  though 
a  less  part  than  in  the  history  of  most  countries.  And 
these  forces  have  been  specially  evident  in  that  depart- 
ment to  which  Westerners  are  apt  to  pay  the  greatest 
attention  —  in  the  department  of  government.  Govern- 
ment has  always  been  less  important  in  China  than  in 
the  Western  world;  it  has  always  been  rudimentary  in 
its  organisation;  and  for  centuries  it  has  been  incompetent 
and  corrupt.  Of  this  corruption  Westerners,  it  is  true, 
make  more  than  they  fairly  should.  China  is  no  more 
corrupt  (to  say  the  least)  than  the  United  States,  or  Italy, 
or  France,  or  than  England  was  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
And  much  that  is  called  corruption  is  recognised  and 
established  "squeeze,"  necessary,  and  understood  to  be 
necessary,  to  supplement  the  inadequate  salaries  of  oflEicials. 
A  Chinese  official  is  corrupt  much  as  Lord  Chancellor 
Bacon  was  corrupt;  and  whether  the  Chancellor  ought 
properly  to  be  called  corrupt  is  still  matter  of  controversy. 
Moreover,  the  people  have  always  had  their  remedy. 
When  the  recognised  "squeeze"  is  exceeded,  they  protest 
by  riot.  So  that  the  Chinese  system,  in  the  most  un- 
favourable view,  may  be  described  as  corruption  tem- 
pered by  anarchy. 

And  this  system,  it  is  admitted,  still  prevails  after  the 
Revolution.    Clearly,   indeed,   it   cannot   be  extirpated 

[80] 


CmNA  IN  TRANSITION 

until  oflficials  are  properly  paid;  and  China  is  not  in  a 
position  to  pay  for  any  reform  while  the  Powers  are 
drawing  away  an  enormous  percentage  of  her  resources 
by  that  particular  form  of  robbery  called  by  diplomatists 
"indemnity."  The  new  officials,  then,  are  "corrupt" 
as  the  old  ones  were;  and  they  are  something  more.  They 
are  Jacobins.  Educated  abroad,  they  are  as  full  of  ideas 
as  was  Robespierre  or  St.  Just;  and  their  ideas  are  even 
more  divorced  from  sentiment  and  tradition.  A  foreign 
education  seems  to  make  a  cut  right  across  a  Chinaman's 
life.  He  returns  with  a  new  head;  and  his  head  never 
gets  into  normal  relations  with  his  heart.  That,  I  be- 
lieve, is  the  essence  of  Jacobinism,  ideas  working  with 
enormous  rapidity  and  freedom  unchecked  by  the  fly- 
wheel of  traditional  feelings.  And  it  is  Jacobinism  that 
accounts  for  the  extraordinary  vigour  of  the  campaign 
against  opium.  Many  Europeans  still  endeavour  to 
maintain  that  this  campaign  is  not  serious.  But  that  is 
because  Eiuopeans  simply  cannot  conceive  that  any  body 
of  men  should  be  in  as  deadly  earnest  about  a  moral 
issue  as  are  the  representatives  of  Yoimg  China.  The 
anti-opium  campaign  is  not  only  serious,  it  is  ruthless. 
Smokers  are  flogged  and  executed;  poppy  is  rooted  up; 
and  farmers  who  resist  are  shot  down.  The  other  day  in 
Hunan,  it  is  credibly  reported,  some  seventy  farmers  who 
had  protested  against  the  destruction  of  their  crops  were 
locked  into  a  temple  and  burnt  alive.  An  old  man  of 
seventy-six,  falsely  accused  of  growing  poppy,  was  fined 

[8i] 


APPEARANCES 

500  dollars,  and  when  he  refused  to  pay  was  flogged  to 
death  by  the  orders  of  a  young  ofl5cial  of  twenty-two. 
Stories  of  this  kind  come  in  from  every  part  of  the  coun- 
tr}^;  and  though  this  or  that  story  may  be  untrue  or  ex- 
aggerated, there  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  general  state 
of  affairs.  The  ofl&cials  are  putting  down  opium  with  a 
vigour  and  a  determination  which  it  is  inconceivable 
should  ever  be  applied  in  the  West  to  the  traffic  in  alcohol. 
But  in  doing  so  they  are  showing  a  ruthlessness  which 
does  not  seem  to  be  native  to  the  Chinese,  and  which 
perhaps  is  to  be  accounted  for  by  what  I  have  called 
Jacobinism,  resulting  from  the  effects  of  a  Western  edu- 
cation that  has  been  unable  to  penetrate  harmoniously 
the  complicated  structiu-e  of  Chinese  character. 

The  anti-opium  campaign  is  one  example  of  the  way 
in  which  the  Revolution  has  elicited  and  intensified 
violence  in  this  peace-loving  people.  Another  example 
is  the  use  of  assassination.  This  has  been  an  accom- 
paniment of  all  great  revolutions.  It  took  the  form  of 
"proscriptions"  in  Rome,  of  the  revolutionary  tribunals 
in  France.  In  China  it  is  by  comparison  a  negligible 
factor;  but  it  exists.  Two  months  ago  a  prominent 
leader  of  the  southern  party  was  assassinated;  and  popular 
suspicion  traces  the  murder  to  high  Government  oflficials, 
and  even  to  the  President  himself.  The  other  day  a 
southern  general  was  killed  by  a  bomb.  For  the  manu- 
facture of  bombs  is  one  of  the  things  China  has  learned 
from  the  Christian  West;  and  the  President  lives  in  con- 

[82] 


CfflNA  IN  TRANSITION 

stant  terror  of  this  form  of  murder,  China,  it  will  be 
seen,  does  not  altogether  escape  the  violence  that  accom- 
panies all  revolutions.  Nor  does  she  altogether  escape 
the  anarchy.  Anarchy,  indeed,  that  is  a  simple  strike 
against  authority,  may  be  said  to  be  part  of  the  Chinese 
system.  It  is  the  way  they  have  always  enforced  their 
notions  of  justice.  A  curious  example  has  been  recently 
offered  by  the  students  of  the  Pekin  University.  For 
various  reasons  —  good  or  bad  —  they  have  objected  to 
the  conduct  of  their  Chancellor.  After  ineffectual  pro- 
tests, they  called  upon  him  in  large  numbers  with  his 
resignation  ^vritten  out,  and  requested  him  to  sign  it.  He 
refused,  whereupon  they  remarked  that  they  would  call 
again  the  next  day  with  revolvers;  and  in  the  interval  he 
saw  wisdom  and  signed.  Last  week  there  was  a  similar 
episode.  The  new  Chancellor  proved  as  unpalatable  as 
his  predecessor.  The  students  once  more  presented  them- 
selves ^'ith  his  resignation  written  out.  He  refused  to 
resign,  and,  as  the  students  aver,  scurrilously  abused 
them.  They  proceeded  to  the  Minister  of  Education, 
who  refused  to  see  them.  Thereupon  they  camped 
out  in  his  courtyard,  and  stayed  all  day  and  all  night, 
sending  a  message  to  the  professors  dated  "from  under 
the  trees  of  the  Education  OflSce,"  to  explain  that  they 
were  unfortunately  unable  to  attend  lectures.  This 
Chancellor,  too,  it  would  seem,  has  seen  wisdom  and 
resigned. 
How  strange  it  all  seems  to  Western  eyes!    A  coimtry, 

[83] 


APPEARANCES 

we  should  suppose,  where  such  things  occur,  is  incapable 
of  organisation.  But  it  is  certain  that  we  are  wrong. 
Our  notion  is  that  everything  must  be  done  by  authority, 
and  that  unless  authority  is  maintained  there  will  be 
anarchy.  The  Chinese  notion  is  that  authority  is  there 
to  carry  out  what  the  people  recognise  to  be  common  sense 
and  justice;  if  it  does  otherwise,  it  must  be  resisted;  and  if 
it  disappears  life  will  still  go  on  —  as  it  is  going  on  now 
in  the  greater  part  of  China  —  on  the  basis  of  the  tradi- 
tional and  essentially  reasonable  routine.  Almost  cer- 
tainly the  students  of  the  University  had  justice  on  their 
side;  otherwise  such  action  would  not  be  taken;  and  when 
they  get  justice  they  will  be  more  docile  and  orderly  than 
our  own  undergraduates  at  home. 

Another  thing  surprising  to  European  observers  is 
the  apparent  belief  of  the  Chinese  in  verbal  remonstrance. 
Under  the  present  regime  ofl&cials  and  public  men  are 
allowed  the  free  use  of  the  telegraph.  The  consequence 
is  that  telegrams  of  advice,  admonition,  approval,  blame, 
fear,  hope,  doubt  pour  in  daily  to  the  Government  from 
civil  and  military  governors,  from  members  of  Parliament 
and  party  leaders.  In  the  paper  to-day,  for  example,  is  a 
telegram  from  the  Governors  of  seventeen  provinces  ad- 
dressed to  the  National  Assembly.    It  begins  as  follows: 

"To  the  President,  the  Cabinet,  the  Tsan  Yi  Yuan, 
the  Chung  Yi  Yuan,  and  the  Press  Association,  —  When 
the  revolution  took  place  at  Wuchang,  the  various  socie- 

I84I 


CHINA  IN  TRANSITION 

ties  and  groups  responded,  and  when  the  Republic  was 
inaugurated  the  troops  raised  among  these  bodies  were 
gradually  disbanded.  For  fear  that,  being  driven  by 
hunger,  these  disbanded  soldiers  would  become  a  menace 
to  the  place,  the  various  societies  and  groups  have  estab- 
lished a  society  at  Shanghai  called  the  Citizens'  Pro- 
gressive Society,  to  promote  the  means  of  livelihood  for 
the  people,  and  the  advancement  of  society,  and  the 
estabhshment  has  been  registered  in  the  offices  of  the 
Tutuhs  of  the  provinces," 

Then  follows  a  statement  of  the  "six  dangers"  to 
which  the  coimtry  is  exposed,  an  appeal  to  the  Assembly 
to  act  more  reasonably  and  competently,  and  then  the 
following  peroration: 

"The  declarations  of  us,  Yuan-himg  and  others,  are 
still  there,  our  woimds  have  not  yet  been  fully  recovered, 
and  should  the  sea  and  ocean  be  dried  up,  our  original 
hearts  will  not  be  changed.  We  will  protect  the  Republic 
with  our  sinews  and  blood  of  brass  and  iron,  we  will 
take  the  lead  of  the  province,  and  be  their  backbone, 
and  we  will  not  allow  the  revival  of  the  monarchy  and 
the  suppression  of  the  powers  of  the  people.  Let  Heaven 
and  earth  be  witness  to  our  words.  You  gentlemen  are 
pillars  of  the  political  parties,  or  the  representatives  of 
the  people,  and  you  should  unite  together  and  not  become 
inconsistent.    You  first  determined  that  the  Loan  is 

[85] 


APPEARANCES 

necessary,  but  such  opinion  is  now  changed,  and  you  now 
reject  the  Loan.  Can  the  ice  be  changed  into  red  coal 
in  your  hearts?  Thus  even  those  who  love  and  admire 
you  will  not  be  able  to  defend  your  position.  However,  if 
you  have  any  extraordinary  plan  or  suggestion  to  save 
the  present  situation,  you  can  show  it  to  us." 

Some  of  the  strange  effect  produced  by  this  document 
is  due,  no  doubt,  to  translation.  But  it,  like  the  many 
others  of  the  kind  I  have  read,  seems  to  indicate  what 
is  at  the  root  of  the  Chinese  attitude  to  life  —  a  belief 
in  the  power  of  reason  and  persuasion.  I  have  said 
enough  to  show  that  this  attitude  does  not  exclude  the 
use  of  violence;  but  I  feel  s\ire  that  it  limits  it  far  more 
than  it  has  ever  been  limited  in  Europe.  Even  in  time  of 
revolution  the  Chinese  are  peaceable  and  orderly  to  an 
extent  unknown  and  almost  imbelievable  in  the  West. 
And  the  one  thing  the  West  is  teaching  them  and  priding 
itself  on  teaching  them  is  the  absurdity  of  this  attitude. 
Well,  one  day  it  is  the  West  that  will  repent  because  China 
has  learnt  the  lesson  too  well. 


1861 


vn 

A  SACRED  MOUNTAIN 

It  was  midnight  when  the  train  set  us  down  at  Tai- 
an-fu.  The  moon  was  full.  We  passed  across  fields, 
through  deserted  alleys  where  sleepers  lay  naked  on 
the  ground,  under  a  great  gate  in  a  great  wall,  by  halls 
and  pavilions,  by  shimmering,  tree-shadowed  spaces, 
up  and  down  steps,  and  into  a  com-t  where  cypresses 
grew.  We  set  up  oiur  beds  in  a  veranda,  and  woke  to  see 
leaves  against  the  morning  sky.  We  explored  the  vast 
temple  and  its  monuments  —  iron  vessels  of  the  Tang  age, 
a  great  tablet  of  the  Sungs,  trees  said  to  date  from  before 
the  Christian  era,  stones  inscribed  with  drawings  of  these 
by  the  Emperor  Chien  Lung,  hall  after  hall,  court  after 
court,  ruinous,  overgrown,  and  the  great  cnmabling  walls 
and  gates  and  towers.  Then  in  the  afternoon  we  began 
the  ascent  of  Tai  Shan,  the  most  sacred  moimtain  in 
China,  the  most  frequented,  perhaps,  in  the  world.  There, 
according  to  tradition,  legendary  emperors  worshipped 
God.  Confucius  climbed  it  six  centuries  before  Christ, 
and  sighed,  we  are  told,  to  find  his  native  State  so  small. 
The  great  Chin-Shih-Huang  was  there  in  the  third  cen- 
tury B.  c.    Chien  Lung  in  the  eighteenth  century  covered 

[87I 


APPEARANCES 

it  with  inscriptions.  And  millions  of  humble  pilgrims 
for  thirty  centuries  at  least  have  toiled  up  the  steep  and 
narrow  way.  Steep  it  is,  for  it  makes  no  detours,  but 
follows  straight  up  the  bed  of  a  stream,  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  five  thousand  feet  is  ascended  by  stone  steps. 
A  great  ladder  of  eighteen  flights  climbs  the  last  ravine, 
and  to  see  it  from  below,  sinuously  mounting  the  pre- 
cipitous face  to  the  great  arch  that  leads  on  to  the  summit, 
is  enough  to  daunt  the  most  ardent  walker.  We  at  least 
were  glad  to  be  chaired  some  part  of  the  way.  A  wonderful 
way!  On  the  lower  slopes  it  passes  from  portal  to  portal, 
from  temple  to  temple.  Meadows  shaded  with  aspen 
and  willow  border  the  stream  as  it  falls  from  green  pool 
to  green  pool.  Higher  up  are  scattered  pines.  Else  the 
rocks  are  bare  —  bare,  but  very  beautiful,  with  that  sig- 
nificance of  form  which  I  have  found  everywhere  in  the 
mountains  in  China. 

To  such  beauty  the  Chinese  are  peculiarly  sensitive. 
All  the  way  up  the  rocks  are  carved  with  inscriptions 
recording  the  charm  and  the  sanctity  of  the  place.  Some 
of  them  were  written  by  emperors;  many,  especially,  by 
Chien  Lung,  the  great  patron  of  art  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. They  are  models,  one  is  told,  of  caligraphy  as  well 
as  of  literary  composition.  Indeed,  according  to  Chinese 
standards,  they  could  not  be  the  one  without  the  other. 
The  very  names  of  favourite  spots  are  poems  in  themselves. 
One  is  "  the  pavilion  of  the  phoenixes  " ;  another  "  the  foun- 
tain of  the  white  cranes."    A  rock  is  called  "  the  tower  of 

[88] 


A  SACRED  MOUNTAIN 

the  quickening  spirit";  the  gate  on  the  summit  is  "the 
portal  of  the  clouds."  More  prosaic,  but  not  less  charm- 
ing, is  an  inscription  on  a  rock  in  the  plain,  "  the  place  of 
the  three  smiles,"  because  there  some  mandarins,  meeting 
to  drink  and  converse,  told  three  peculiarly  funny  stories. 
Is  not  that  delightful?  It  seems  so  to  me.  And  so  pecul- 
iarly Chinese! 

It  was  dark  before  we  reached  the  summit.  We  put  up 
in  the  temple  that  crowns  it,  dedicated  to  YU  Huang,  the 
"Jade  Emperor"  of  the  Taoists;  and  his  image  and  those 
of  his  attendant  deities  watched  our  slumbers.  But  we  did 
not  sleep  till  we  had  seen  the  moon  rise,  a  great  orange  disc, 
straight  from  the  plain,  and  swiftly  mount  till  she  made  the 
river,  five  thousand  feet  below,  a  silver  streak  in  the  dim 
grey  levels. 

Next  morning,  at  sunrise,  we  saw  that,  north  and  east, 
range  after  range  of  lower  hills  stretched  to  the  horizon, 
while  south  lay  the  plain,  with  half  a  hundred  streams 
gleaming  down  to  the  river  from  the  valleys.  Full  in  view 
was  the  hill  where,  more  than  a  thousand  years  ago,  the 
great  Tang  poet  Li-tai-po  retired  with  five  companions  to 
drink  and  make  verses.  They  are  still  known  to  tradition 
as  the  "six  idlers  of  the  bamboo  grove";  and  the  morning 
sun,  I  half  thought,  still  shines  upon  their  symposium.  We 
spent  the  day  on  the  mountain;  and  as  the  hours  passed 
by,  more  and  more  it  showed  itself  to  be  a  sacred  place. 
Sacred  to  what  god?  No  question  is  harder  to  answer  of 
any  sacred  place,  for  there  are  as  many  ideas  of  the  god  as 

[89] 


APPEARANCES 

there  are  worshippers.  There  are  temples  here  to  various 
gods:  to  the  mountain  himself;  to  the  Lady  of  the  moun- 
tain, Pi-hsia-yiien,  who  is  at  once  the  Venus  of  Lucretius — 
"goddess  of  procreation,  gold  as  the  clouds,  blue  as  the 
sky,"  one  inscription  calls  her  —  and  the  kindly  mother 
who  gives  children  to  women  and  heals  the  little  ones  of 
their  ailments;  to  the  Great  Bear;  to  the  Green  Emperor, 
who  clothes  the  trees  with  leaves;  to  the  Cloud-compeller: 
to  many  others.  And  in  all  this,  is  there  no  room  for  God? 
It  is  a  poor  imagination  that  would  think  so.  When  men 
worship  the  mountain,  do  they  worship  a  rock,  or  the  spirit 
of  the  place,  or  the  spirit  that  has  no  place?  It  is  the 
latter,  we  may  be  sure,  that  some  men  adored,  standing 
at  sunrise  on  this  spot.  And  the  Jade  Emperor  —  is  he 
a  mere  idol?  In  the  temple  where  we  slept  were  three  in- 
scriptions set  up  by  the  Emperor  Chien  Lung.  They  run 
as  follows: 

"Without  labour,  oh  Lord,  Thou  bringest   forth  the  greatest 

things." 
"Thou  leadest  Thy  company  of  spirits  to  guard  the  whole  world." 
"In  the  company  of  Thy  spirits  Thou  art  wise  as  a  mighty  Lord 

to  achieve  great  works." 

These  might  be  sentences  from  the  Psalms;  they  are 
as  religious  as  anything  Hebraic.  And  if  it  be  retorted 
that  the  mass  of  the  worshippers  on  Tai  Shan  are  super- 
stitious, so  are,  and  always  have  been,  the  mass  of  wor- 
shippers anywhere.    Those  who  rise  to  religion  in  any 

[90] 


A  SACRED  MOUNTAIN 

country  are  few,  India,  I  suspect,  is  the  great  exception. 
But  I  do  not  know  that  they  are  fewer  in  China  than  else- 
where. For  that  form  of  religion,  indeed,  which  consists 
in  the  worship  of  natural  beauty  and  what  lies  behind  it 
—  for  the  religion  of  a  Wordsworth  —  they  seem  to  be 
pre-eminently  gifted.  The  cult  of  this  mountain,  and  of 
the  many  others  like  it  in  China,  the  choice  of  sites  for 
temples  and  monasteries,  the  inscriptions,  the  little  pavil- 
ions set  up  where  the  view  is  loveliest  —  all  go  to  prove 
this.  In  England  we  have  lovelier  hills,  perhaps,  than  any 
in  China.  But  where  is  our  sacred  mountain?  Where,  in 
all  the  country,  that  charming  mythology  which  once  in 
Greece  and  Italy,  as  now  in  China,  was  the  outward  ex- 
pression of  the  love  of  nature? 

"Great  God,  I'd  rather  be 

A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn." 

That  passionate  cry  of  a  poet  born  into  a  naked  world 
would  never  have  been  wrung  from  him  had  he  been  born 
in  China. 

And  that  leads  me  to  one  closing  reflection.  When 
lovers  of  China  —  "pro-Chinese,"  as  they  are  contemptu- 
ously called  in  the  East  —  assert  that  China  is  more  civil- 
ised than  the  modern  West,  even  the  candid  Westerner, 
who  is  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  facts,  is  apt  to 
suspect  insincere  paradox.     Perhaps  these  few  notes  on 

[91I 


APPEARANCES 

Tai  Shan  may  help  to  make  the  matter  clearer.  A  people 
that  can  so  consecrate  a  place  of  natural  beauty  is  a 
people  of  fine  feeling  for  the  essential  values  of  life.  That 
they  should  also  be  dirty,  disorganised,  corrupt,  incom- 
petent, even  if  it  were  true  —  and  is  far  from  being  true  in 
any  unqualified  sense  —  would  be  irrelevant  to  this  issue. 
On  a  foundation  of  inadequate  material  prosperity  they 
reared,  centuries  ago,  the  superstructure  of  a  great  culture. 
The  West,  in  rebuilding  its  foundations,  has  gone  far  to 
destroy  the  superstructure.  Western  civilisation,  wher- 
ever it  penetrates,  brings  with  it  water-taps,  sewers,  and 
police;  but  it  brings  also  an  ugliness,  an  insincerity,  a 
vulgarity  never  before  known  to  history,  unless  it  be  under 
the  Roman  Empire.  It  is  terrible  to  see  in  China  the  first 
wave  of  this  Western  flood  flinging  along  the  coasts  and 
rivers  and  railway  lines  its  scrofulous  foam  of  advertise- 
ments, of  corrugated  iron  roofs,  of  vulgar,  meaningless  ar- 
chitectural forms.  In  China,  as  in  all  old  civilisations  I 
have  seen,  all  the  building  of  man  harmonises  with  and 
adorns  nature.  In  the  West  everything  now  built  is  a  blot. 
Many  men,  I  know,  sincerely  think  that  this  destruction  of 
beauty  is  a  small  matter,  and  that  only  decadent  aesthetes 
would  pay  any  attention  to  it  in  a  world  so  much  in  need 
of  sewers  and  hospitals.  I  believe  this  view  to  be  pro- 
foundly mistaken.  The  ugliness  of  the  West  is  a  symptom 
of  disease  of  the  Soul.  It  implies  that  the  end  has  been  lost 
sight  of  in  the  means.  In  China  the  opposite  is  the  case. 
The  end  is  clear,  though  the  means  be  inadequate.    Con- 

[92 1 


A  SACRED  MOUNTAIN 

sider  what  the  Chinese  have  done  to  Tai  Shan,  and  what 
the  West  will  shortly  do,  once  the  stream  of  Western  tour- 
ists begins  to  flow  strongly.  Where  the  Chinese  have  con- 
structed a  winding  stairway  of  stone,  beautiful  from  all 
points  of  view,  Europeans  or  Americans  will  run  up  a  fu- 
nicular railway,  a  staring  scar  that  will  never  heal.  Where 
the  Chinese  have  written  poems  in  exquisite  caligraphy, 
they  will  cover  the  rocks  with  advertisements.  Where  the 
Chinese  have  built  a  series  of  temples,  each  so  designed 
and  placed  as  to  be  a  new  beauty  in  the  landscape,  they 
will  run  up  restaurants  and  hotels  like  so  many  scabs 
on  the  face  of  nature.  I  say  with  confidence  that  they 
will,  because  they  have  done  it  wherever  there  is  any  chance 
of  a  paying  investment.  Well,  the  Chinese  need,  I  agree, 
our  science,  our  organisation,  our  medicine.  But  is  it 
affectation  to  think  they  may  have  to  pay  too  high  a  price 
for  it,  and  to  suggest  that  in  acquiring  our  material  ad- 
vantages they  may  lose  what  we  have  gone  near  to  lose, 
that  fine  and  sensitive  culture  which  is  one  of  the  forms 
of  spiritual  life?  The  West  talks  of  civilising  China. 
Would  that  China  could  civilise  the  West! 


[93] 


PART  III 
JAPAN 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  JAPAN 

Japan,  surely,  must  be  a  mirage  created  by  enchant- 
ment. Nothing  so  beautiful  could  be  real.  Take  the 
west  coast  of  Scotland,  bathe  it  in  Mediterranean  light 
and  sun,  and  let  its  waves  be  those  of  the  Pacific.  Take 
the  best  of  Devonshire,  enlarge  the  hills,  extend  the  plains, 
and  dominate  all  with  the  only  perfect  mountain  in  the 
world  —  a  mountain  that  catches  at  your  breath  like  a 
masterpiece  of  art.  Make  the  copses  woods,  and  the  woods 
forests.  For  our  fields  with  their  hedgerows  substitute  the 
vivid  green  of  rice,  shining  across  the  gleam  of  flooded 
plains.  Ever3rwhere  let  water  flow;  and  at  every  water- 
fall and  cave  erect  a  little  shrine  to  hallow  the  spot.  Over 
the  whole  pour  a  flood  of  pure  white  light,  and  you  have  a 
faint  image  of  Japan.  Perhaps  it  is  not,  naturally,  more 
beautiful  than  the  British  Isles  —  few  countries  are.  But 
it  is  unspoilt  by  man,  or  almost  so.  Osaka,  indeed,  is  as 
ugly  as  Manchester,  Yokohama  as  Liverpool.  But  these 
are  small  blots.  For  the  rest,  Japan  is  Japan  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  lovely  as  England  may  have  been,  when  England 
could  still  be  called  merry. 
And  the  people  are  lovely,  too.     I  do  not  speak  of  facial 

[97 1 


APPEARANCES 

beauty.  Some  may  think,  in  that  respect,  the  English  or 
the  Americans  handsomer.  But  these  people  have  the 
beauty  of  life.  Instead  of  the  tombstone  masks  that  pass 
for  faces  among  Anglo-Saxons,  they  have  himian  features, 
quick,  responsive,  mobile.  Instead  of  the  slow,  long  limbs 
creaking  in  stiff  integimaents,  they  have  active  members,  for 
the  most  bare  or  moving  freely  in  loose  robes.  Instead  of  a 
mumbled,  monotonous,  machine-like  emission  of  sound 
they  have  real  speech,  vivacious,  varied,  musical.  Their 
children  are  the  loveliest  in  the  world;  so  gay,  so  sturdy, 
so  cheeky,  yet  never  rude.  It  is  a  pure  happiness  merely 
to  walk  in  the  streets  and  look  at  them.  It  is  a  pure  hap- 
piness, I  might  almost  say,  to  look  at  anyone,  so  gay  is 
their  greeting,  so  radiant  their  smile,  so  full  of  vitality  their 
gestures.  I  do  not  know  what  they  think  of  the  foreigner, 
but  at  least  they  betray  no  animosity.  They  let  his  stiff, 
ungainly  presence  move  among  them  unchallenged.  Per- 
haps they  are  sorry  for  him;  but  I  think  they  are  never 
rude.  I  am  speaking,  of  course,  of  Old  Japan,  of  the  Japan 
that  is  all  in  evidence,  if  one  lands,  as  I  did,  in  the  south, 
avoids  Osaka,  and  postpones  Yokohama  and  Tokio.  It  is 
still  the  Japan  of  feudalism;  a  system  in  which  I,  for  my 
part,  do  not  beUeve;  which,  in  its  essence,  in  Japan  as  in 
Europe,  was  harsh,  imjust,  and  cruel;  but  which  had  the 
art  of  fostering,  or  at  least  of  not  destroying,  beauty. 

And  in  this  point  feudalism  in  Japan  was  finer  and  more 
sensitive,  if  it  was  less  grandiose,  than  feudalism  in  Europe. 
There  is  nothing  in  Japan  to  compare  with  the  churches 

[98I 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  JAPAN 

and  cathedrals  of  the  West,  for  there  is  no  stone  architec- 
ture at  all.  But  there  is  nothing  in  the  West  to  compare 
with  the  living-rooms  of  Japan.  Suites  of  these  dating  from 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  are  to  be  seen  in 
Kyoto  and  elsewhere.  And  till  I  saw  them  I  had  no  idea 
how  exquisite  human  life  might  be  made.  The  Japanese, 
as  is  well  known,  discovered  the  secret  of  emptiness.  Their 
rooms  consist  of  a  floor  of  spotless  matting,  paper  walls, 
and  a  wooden  roof.  But  the  paper  walls,  in  these  old 
palatial  rooms,  are  masterpieces  by  great  artists.  From  a 
background  of  gold-leaf  emerge  and  fade  away  sugges- 
tions of  river  and  coast  and  hill,  of  peonies,  chrysanthe- 
mums, lotuses,  of  wild  geese  and  swans,  of  reeds  and  pools, 
of  all  that  is  elusive  and  choice  in  nature;  decorations  that 
are  also  lyric  poems,  hints  of  landscape  that  yet  never 
pretend  to  be  a  substitute  for  the  real  thing.  The  real  thing 
is  outside,  and  perhaps  it  will  not  intrude;  for  where  we 
should  have  glass  windows  the  Japanese  have  white  paper 
screens.  But  draw  back,  if  you  choose,  one  of  these  screens, 
and  you  will  see  a  little  landscape  garden,  a  little  lake,  a 
little  bridge,  a  tiny  rockery,  a  few  gold-fish,  a  cluster  of 
irises,  a  bed  of  lotus,  and,  above  and  beyond,  the  great 
woods.  These  are  royal  apartments;  but  all  the  cost,  it 
will  be  seen,  is  lavished  on  the  work  of  art.  The  principle 
is  the  same  in  humbler  homes. 

People  who  could  so  devise  life,  we  may  be  sure,  are 
people  with  a  fineness  of  perception  unknown  to  the 
West,  unless  it  were  once  in  ancient  Greece.    The  Jap- 

[99I 


APPEARANCES 

anese,  indeed,  I  suspect,  are  the  Greeks  of  the  East. 
In  the  theatre  at  Kyoto  this  was  curiously  borne  in  upon 
me.  On  the  floor  of  the  house  reclined  figures  in  loose 
robes,  bare-necked  and  barefooted.  On  the  narrow  stage 
were  one  or  two  actors,  chanting  in  measured  speech, 
and  moving  slowly  from  pose  to  pose.  From  boxes  on 
either  side  of  the  stage  intoned  a  kind  of  chorus;  and  a 
flute  and  pizzicato  strings  accompanied  the  whole  in  the 
solemn  strains  of  some  ancient  mode.  I  have  seen  nothing 
so  like  what  a  Greek  play  may  have  been,  though  doubtless 
even  this  was  far  enough  away.  And  still  more  was  I 
struck  by  the  resemblance  when  a  comedy  succeeded  to 
the  tragedy,  and  I  found  the  young  and  old  Japan  con- 
fronting one  another  exactly  as  the  young  and  old  Athens 
met  in  debate,  two  thousand  years  ago,  in  the  Frogs  of 
Aristophanes.  The  theme  was  an  ascent  of  Mount 
Fuji;  the  actors  two  groups  of  young  girls,  one  costumed 
as  virgin  priestesses  of  the  Shinto  cult,  the  other  in  modern 
European  dress.  The  one  set  were  climbing  the  mountain 
as  a  pilgrimage,  the  other  as  a  lark;  and  they  meet  and 
exchange  sharp  dialectics  (unintelligible  to  me,  but  not 
imguessable)  on  the  lower  slopes.  The  sjonpathies  of 
the  author,  like  those  of  Aristophanes,  were  with  the  old 
school.  It  is  the  pilgrims  who  reach  the  top  and  the 
modem  young  women  who  collapse.  And  the  modern 
young  man  fares  no  better;  he  is  beaten  by  a  cooUe  and 
frightened  by  a  ghost.  The  playwright  had  at  least 
Aristophanes'  gift  of  lampoon,  though  I  doubt  whether 

[loo] 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS    OF  JAPAN 

he  had  a  touch  of  his  genius.  Perhaps,  however,  he  had 
a  better  cause.  For,  I  doubt,  modern  Japan  may  de- 
serve lampooning  more  than  the  Athens  of  Aristophanes. 
For  modern  Japan  is  the  modern  West.  And  that  —  well, 
it  seemed  to  be  symbolised  to  me  yesterday  in  the  train. 
In  my  carriage  were  two  Japanese.  One  was  loosely 
wrapt  in  a  kimono,  bare  throat  and  feet,  fine  features, 
fine  gestures,  everything  aristocratic  and  distinguished. 
The  other  was  clad  in  European  dress,  sprigged  waist- 
coat, gold  watch-chain,  a  coarse,  thick-lipped  face,  a 
podgy  figure.  It  was  a  hot  July  day,  and  we  were  passing 
through  some  of  the  loveliest  scenery  in  the  world.  He 
first  closed  all  doors  and  windows,  and  then  extended 
himself  at  full  length  and  went  to  sleep.  There  he  lay, 
his  great  paunch  sagging  —  prosperity  exuding  from  every 
pore  —  an  emblem  and  type  of  what  in  the  West  we  call 
a  "successful"  man.  And  the  other?  The  other,  no 
doubt,  was  going  downhill.  Both,  of  course,  were  Japanese 
types;  but  the  civilisation  of  the  West  chose  the  one  and 
rejected  the  other.  And  if  civilisation  is  to  be  judged, 
as  it  fairly  may  be,  by  the  kind  of  men  it  brings  to  the 
top,  there  is  much  to  be  said  for  the  point  of  view  of  my 
Tory  playwright. 


[lOl] 


n 

A  "NO"  DANCE 

On  entering  the  theatre  I  was  invaded  by  a  sense  of  se- 
renity and  peace.  There  was  no  ornament,  no  upholstery, 
no  superfluity  at  all.  A  square  building  of  unvarnished 
wood;  a  floor  covered  with  matting,  exquisitely  clean,  and 
divided  into  Uttle  boxes,  or  rather  trays  (so  low  were  the 
partitions),  in  which  the  audience  knelt  on  their  heels, 
beautiful  in  loose  robes;  running  out  from  the  back  wall  a 
square  stage,  with  a  roof  supported  by  pillars;  a  passage 
on  the  same  level,  by  which  the  actors  entered,  on  the 
left;  the  screens  removed  from  the  outer  walls,  so  that  the 
hall  was  open  to  the  air,  and  one  looked  out  on  sky  and 
trees,  or  later  on  darkness,  against  which  shone  a  few 
painted  lanterns.  Compare  this  with  the  Queen's  Hall 
in'  London,  or  with  any  of  our  theatres,  and  realise 
the  effect  on  one's  mood  of  the  mere  setting  of  the 
drama.  Drama  was  it?  Or  opera?  Or  what?  It  is  called  a 
"dance."  But  there  was  very  Uttle  dancing.  What 
mainly  remains  in  my  mind  is  a  series  of  visual  images, 
one  more  beautiful  than  another;  figures  seated  motionless 
for  minutes,  almost  for  half-hours,  with  a  stillness  of  stat- 
ues, not  an  eyelash  shaking;  or  passing  very  slowly  across 

[loa] 


A  "NO"  DANCE 

the  stage,  with  that  movement  of  bringing  one  foot  up 
to  the  other  and  pausing  before  the  next  step  which  is  so 
ridiculous  in  our  opera,  but  was  here  so  right  and  so  im- 
pressive; or  turning  slowly,  or  rising  and  sitting  with 
immense  deliberation;  each  figure  right  in  its  relation  to 
the  stage  and  to  the  others.  All  were  clothed  in  stiff 
brocade,  sumptuous  but  not  gorgeous.  One  or  two  were 
masked;  and  all  of  them,  I  felt,  ought  to  have  been.  The 
mask,  in  fact,  the  use  of  which  in  Greek  drama  I  had 
always  felt  to  be  so  questionable,  was  here  triumphantly 
justified.  It  completed  the  repudiation  of  actuality 
which  was  the  essence  of  the  effect.  It  was  a  musical 
sound,  as  it  were,  made  visible.  It  symbolised  humanity, 
but  it  was  not  human,  stiU  less  inhuman.  I  would  rather 
call  it  divine.  And  this  whole  art  of  movement  and  cos- 
tume required  that  completion.  Once  I  had  seen  a  mask 
I  missed  it  in  all  the  characters  that  were  without  it. 

To  me,  then,  this  visual  spectacle  was  the  essence  of 
the  "No"  dance.  The  dancing  itself,  when  it  came,  was 
but  a  slight  intensification  of  the  slow  and  solemn  posing 
I  have  described.  There  was  no  violence,  no  leaping, 
no  quick  steps;  rather  a  turning  and  bending,  a  slow 
sweep  of  the  arm,  a  walking  a  little  more  rhythmical, 
on  the  verge,  at  most,  of  running.  It  was  never  ex- 
citing, but  I  could  not  say  it  was  never  passionate.  It 
seemed  to  express  a  kind  of  frozen  or  petrified  passion; 
rather,  perhaps,  a  passion  run  into  a  mould  of  beauty  and 
tiurned  out  a  statue.    I  have  never  seen  an  art  of  such 

[103I 


APPEARANCES 

reserve  and  such  distinction,  "Or  of  such  tediousness," 
I  seem  to  hear  an  impatient  reader  exclaim.  Well,  let 
me  be  frank.  Like  all  Westerners,  I  am  accustomed 
to  life  in  quick  time,  and  to  an  art  full  of  episode,  of  intel- 
lectual content,  of  rapid  change  and  rapid  development. 
I  have  lost  to  a  great  extent  that  power  of  prolonging  an 
emotion  which  seems  to  be  the  secret  of  Eastern  art.  I 
am  bored  —  subconsciously,  as  it  were  —  where  an  Ori- 
ental is  lulled  into  ecstasy.  His  case  is  the  better.  But 
also,  in  this  matter  of  the  "No"  dance  he  has  me  at  a 
disadvantage.  In  the  first  place  he  can  understand  the 
words.  These,  it  is  true,  have  far  less  importance  than 
in  a  drama  of  Shakspere.  They  are  only  a  lyric  or  nar- 
rative accompaniment  to  the  music  and  the  dance.  Still 
they  have,  one  is  informed,  a  beauty  much  appreciated 
by  Japanese,  and  one  that  the  stranger,  ignorant  of  the 
language,  misses.  And  secondly,  what  is  worse,  the  music 
failed  to  move  me.  Whether  this  is  my  own  fault,  or 
that  of  the  music,  I  do  not  presume  to  decide,  for  I  do  not 
know  whether,  as  so  often  is  the  case,  I  was  defeated  by  a 
convention  unfamiliar  to  me,  or  whether  the  convention 
has  really  become  formal  and  artificial.  In  any  case, 
after  the  first  shock  of  interest,  I  found  the  music  monoto- 
nous. It  was  solemn  and  religious  in  character,  and 
reminded  me  more  of  Gregorian  chants  than  of  anything 
else.  But  it  had  one  curious  feature  which  seemed  rather 
to  be  primitive  and  orgiastic.  The  two  musicians  who 
played  the  drimis  accompanied  the  performers,  almost 

[  104 1 


A  "NO"  DANCE 

unceasingly,  by  a  kind  of  musical  ejaculation,  starting  on 
a  low  note  and  swooping  up  to  a  high,  long-held,  falsetto 
cry.  This  over  and  over  again,  through  the  dialogue  and 
through  the  singing.  The  object,  I  suppose,  and  perhaps 
to  Japanese,  the  effect,  is  to  sustain  a  high  emotional  tone. 
In  my  case  it  failed,  as  the  music  generally  failed.  My 
interest,  as  I  began  by  saying,  was  maintained  by  the  visual 
beauty;  and  that  must  have  been  very  great  to  be  able 
to  maintain  itself  independently  of  the  words  and  the 
music. 

As  to  the  drama,  it  is  not  drama  at  all  in  the  sense  in 
which  we  have  come  to  understand  the  term  in  the  West. 
There  is  no  "  construction,"  no  knot  tied  and  untied,  no 
character.  Rather  there  is  a  succession  of  scenes  selected 
from  a  well-known  story  for  some  quality  of  poignancy, 
or  merely  of  narrative  interest.  The  form,  I  think,  should 
be  called  epic  or  lyric  rather  than  dramatic.  And  it  is 
in  this  point  that  it  most  obviously  differs  from  the  Greek 
drama.  It  has  no  intellectual  content,  or  very  little. 
And,  perhaps  for  that  reason,  it  has  had  no  development, 
but  remains  fossilised  where  it  was  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
On  the  other  hand,  these  actors,  I  felt,  are  the  only  ones 
who  could  act  Greek  drama.  They  have,  I  think,  quite 
clearly  the  same  tradition  and  aim  as  the  Greeks.  They 
desire  not  to  reproduce  but  to  symbolise  actuality;  and 
their  conception  of  acting  is  the  very  opposite  of  ours. 
The  last  thing  they  aim  at  is  to  be  "natural."  To  be  un- 
natural   rather    is    their   object.    Hence    the    costume, 

[105] 


APPEARANCES 

hence  the  mask,  hence  the  movement  and  gesture.  And 
how  eflfective  such  "  unnaturalness  "  can  be  in  evokmg 
natural  passion  only  those  will  understand  who  have 
realised  how  ineffective  for  that  purpose  is  our  "natural- 
ness" when  we  are  concerned  with  Sophocles  or  Shakspere. 
The  Japanese  have  in  their  "No"  dance  a  great  treasure. 
For  out  of  it  they  might,  if  they  have  the  genius,  develop 
a  modem,  poetic  drama.  How  thankful  would  hundreds 
of  young  men  be,  starving  for  poetry  in  England,  if  we 
had  as  a  living  tradition  anything  analogous  to  work 
upon! 


[io6] 


m 

NIKKO 

Waking  in  the  night,  I  heard  the  sound  of  running  water. 
A.cross  my  window  I  saw,  stretching  dimly,  the  branch 
A  a  pine,  and  behind  it  shone  the  stars.  I  remembered 
that  I  was  in  Japan  and  felt  that  all  the  essence  of  it  was 
there.  Running  water,  pine  trees,  sun  and  moon  and 
stars.  All  their  life,  as  all  their  art,  seems  to  be  a  mood  of 
these.  For  to  them  their  life  and  their  art  are  insepa- 
rable. The  art  is  not  an  accomplishment,  an  ornament, 
an  excrescence.  It  is  the  flower  of  the  plant.  Some  men, 
some  families  of  men,  feeling  beauty  as  every  one  felt  it, 
had  the  power  also  to  express  it.  Or  perhaps  I  should 
say  —  it  is  the  Japanese  view  —  to  suggest  it.  To  them 
the  branch  of  a  tree  stands  for  a  forest,  a  white  disc  on 
gold  for  night  and  the  moon,  a  quivering  reed  for  a  river, 
a  bamboo  stalk  for  a  grove.  Their  painters  are  poets. 
By  passionate  observation  they  have  learnt  what  ex- 
pression of  the  part  most  inevitably  symbolises  the  whole. 
That  they  give;  and  their  admirers,  trained  like  them  in 
feeling,  fill  in  the  rest.  This  art  presupposes,  what  it  has 
always  had,  a  public  not  less  sensitive  than  the  artist;  a 
similar  mood,  a  similar  tradition,  a  similar  culture.    Feel 

1 107] 


APPEARANCES 

as  they  do,  and  you  must  create  as  they  do,  or  at  least 
appreciate  their  creations. 

It  was  with  this  in  my  mind  that  I  wandered  about 
this  exquisite  place,  where  Man  has  made  a  lovely  nature 
lovelier  still.  More  even  than  by  the  famous  and  sump- 
tuous temples  I  was  moved  by  the  smaller  and  humbler 
shrines,  so  caressing  are  they  of  every  choice  spot,  so 
expressive,  not  of  princely,  but  of  popular,  feeling.  Here 
is  one,  for  instance,  standing  under  a  cliff  beside  a  stream, 
where  women  offer  bits  of  wood  in  the  faith  that  so  they 
will  be  helped  to  pass  safely  through  the  pangs  of  child- 
birth. Here  in  a  ravine  is  another  where  men  who  want 
to  develop  their  calves  hang  up  sandals  to  a  once  athletic 
saint.  "The  Lord,"  oiu-  Scripture  says,  "deUghteth 
not  in  any  man's  legs."  How  pleasant,  then,  it  must  be 
to  have  a  saint  who  does!  Especially  for  the  Japanese, 
whose  legs  are  so  finely  made,  and  who  display  them  so 
deUghtfully.  Such,  all  over  the  world,  is  the  religion  of 
the  people,  when  they  have  any  religion  at  all.  And  how 
human  it  is,  and  how  much  nearer  to  life  than  the  austeri- 
ties and  abstractions  of  a  creed! 

Hour  after  hour  I  strolled  through  these  lovely  places, 
so  beautifully  ordered  that  the  authorities,  one  feels,  must 
themselves  delight  in  the  nature  they  control.  I  had  proof 
of  it,  I  thought,  in  a  notice  which  ran  as  follows: 

"Famous  Taking  Temple  stands  not  far  away,  and 
Somen  Fall  too.  It  is  worth  while  to  be  there  once." 

[io8] 


NIKKO 

It  is  indeed,  and  many  times!  But  can  you  imagine 
a  rural  council  in  England  breaking  into  this  personal  note? 
And  how  reserved!  Almost  like  Japanese  art.  Compare 
the  invitation  I  once  saw  in  Switzerland,  to  visit  "das 
schonste  Schwarm-  und  Aussichtspunkt  des  ganzen 
Schweitzerischen  Reichs."  There  speaks  the  adver- 
tiser. But  beside  the  Somen  Fall  there  was  no  restau- 
rant. 

Northerners,  and  Anglo-Saxons  in  particular,  have 
always  at  the  back  of  their  minds  a  notion  that  there  is 
something  effeminate  about  the  sense  for  beauty.  That  is 
reserved  for  decadent  Southern  nations.  Tu  regere  imperio 
populos,  Romane  memento  they  would  say,  if  they  knew  the 
tag;  and  translate  it  "Britain  rules  the  waves " !  But  his- 
tory gives  the  lie  to  this  complacent  theory.  No  nations 
were  ever  more  virile  than  the  Greeks  or  the  Italians. 
They  have  left  a  mark  on  the  world  which  will  endure  when 
Anglo-Saxon  civilisation  is  forgotten.  And  none  have  been, 
or  are,  more  virile  than  the  Japanese.  That  they  have  the 
delicacy  of  women,  too,  does  not  alter  the  fact.  The  Rus- 
sian War  proved  it,  if  proof  so  tragic  were  required;  and 
so  does  all  their  mediaeval  history.  Japanese  feudalism  was 
as  bloody,  as  ruthless,  as  hard  as  European.  It  was  even 
more  gallant,  stoical,  loyal.  But  it  had  something  else 
which  I  think  Europe  missed,  imless  it  were  once  in  Pro- 
vence. It  had  in  the  midst  of  its  hardness  a  consciousness 
of  the  pathos  of  life,  of  its  beauty,  its  brevity,  its  inex- 
plicable pain.    I  think  in  no  other  country  has  anything 

[109] 


APPEARANCES 

arisen  analogous  to  the  Zen  sect  of  Buddhism,  when  knights 
withdrew  from  battle  to  a  garden  and  summerhouse,  ex- 
quisitely ordered  to  symbolise  the  spiritual  life,  and  there, 
over  a  cup  of  tea  served  with  an  elaborate  ritual,  looking 
out  on  a  lovely  nature,  entered  into  mystic  communion 
with  the  spirit  of  beauty  which  was  also  the  spirit  of  life. 
From  that  communion,  with  that  mood  about  them,  they 
passed  out  to  kill  or  to  die  —  to  die,  it  might  be,  by  their 
own  hand,  by  a  process  which  I  think  no  Western  man  can 
bear  even  to  think  of,  much  less  conceive  himself  as 
imitating. 

This  sense  at  once  of  the  beauty  and  of  the  tragedy 
of  life,  this  power  of  appreciating  the  one  and  dominating 
the  other,  seems  to  be  the  essence  of  the  Japanese  character. 
In  this  place,  it  will  be  remembered,  is  the  tomb  of  lyeyasu, 
the  greatest  statesman  Japan  has  produced.  Appro- 
priately, after  his  battles  and  his  labours,  he  sleeps  under 
the  shade  of  trees,  surrounded  by  chapels  and  oratories 
more  sumptuous  and  superb  than  anything  else  in  Japan, 
approached  for  miles  and  miles  by  a  road  lined  on  either 
side  with  giant  cryptomerias.  His  spirit,  if  it  could  know, 
would  appreciate,  we  may  by  sure,  this  habitation  of 
beauty.  For  these  men,  ruthless  as  they  were,  were  none 
the  less  sensitive .  For  example,  the  traveller  is  shown  (in 
Kyoto,  I  think)  a  little  pavilion  in  a  garden  where  Hideyo- 
shi  used  to  sit  and  contemplate  the  moon.  I  believe  it.  I 
think  lyeyasu  did  the  same.  And  also  he  wrote  this,  on  a 
roll  here  preserved: 

I  no] 


NIKKO 

"Life  is  like  unto  a  long  journey  with  a  heavy  load. 
Let  thy  steps  be  slow  and  steady,  that  thou  stumble  not. 
Persuade  thyself  that  privations  are  the  natural  lot  of 
mortals,  and  there  will  be  no  room  for  discontent,  neither 
for  despair.  When  ambitious  desires  arise  in  thy  heart, 
recall  the  days  of  extremity  thou  hast  passed  through. 
Forbearance  is  the  root  of  quietness  and  assurance  for  ever. 
Look  upon  wrath  as  thy  enemy.  If  thou  knowest  only 
what  it  is  to  conquer,  and  knowest  not  what  it  is  to  be 
defeated,  woe  unto  thee!  It  will  fare  ill  with  thee.  Find 
fault  with  thyself  rather  than  with  others.  Better  the  less 
than  the  more." 

Marcus  Aurelius  might  have  said  that.  But  Marcus 
Aurelius  belonged  to  a  race  peculiarly  insensitive  to  beauty. 
The  Japanese  stoics  were  also  artists  and  poets.  Their 
earliest  painters  were  feudal  lords,  and  it  was  feudal  lords 
who  fostered  and  acted  the  "No"  dances.  If  Nietzsche 
had  known  Japan  —  I  think  he  did  not?  —  he  would  surely 
have  found  in  these  Daimyos  and  Samurai  the  forerunners 
of  his  Superman.  A  blood-red  blossom  growing  out  of  the 
battlefield,  that,  I  think,  was  his  ideal.  It  is  one  which,  I 
hope,  the  world  has  outlived.  I  look  for  the  lily  flowering 
over  the  fields  of  peace. 


[Ill] 


IV 

DIVINE  RIGHT  IN  JAPAN 

When  Japan  was  opened  to  the  West,  after  more  than 
two  centuries  of  seclusion,  she  was  in  possession  of  a 
national  spirit  which  had  been  enabled,  by  isolation, 
to  become  and  remain  simple  and  homogeneous.  All 
public  feeling,  all  public  morals  centred  about  the  divinity 
of  the  Emperor;  an  idea  which,  by  a  process  unique  in 
history,  had  hibernated  through  centuries  of  political  ob- 
scuration, and  emerged  again  to  the  light  with  its  prestige 
unimpaired  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In 
the  Emperor,  one  may  say,  Japan  was  incarnate.  And  to 
this  faith  the  Japanese,  as  well  as  foreign  observers,  attrib- 
ute their  great  achievement  in  the  Russian  War.  The 
little  book  of  Captain  Sakurai,  Human  Bullets,  testifies  to 
this  fact  in  every  sentence:  "Through  the  abundant  grace 
of  Heaven  and  the  illustrious  virtue  of  his  Majesty,  the  Im- 
perial forces  defeated  the  great  enemy  both  on  land  and 
sea."  .  .  .  "I  jumped  out  of  bed,  cleansed  my 
person  with  pure  water,  donned  my  best  uniform,  bowed 
to  the  East  where  the  great  Sire  resides,  solemnly 
read  his  proclamation  of  war,  and  told  his  Majesty 
that  his  humble  subject  was  just  starting  to  the  front. 

[112] 


DIVINE  RIGHT  IN  JAPAN 

When  I  offered  my  last  prayers  —  the  last  I  then 
believed  they  were  —  before  the  family  shrine  of  my 
ancestors,  I  felt  a  thrill  going  all  through  me,  as  if  they 
were  giving  me  a  solemn  injunction  saying:  'Thou 
art  not  thy  own.  For  his  Majesty's  sake,  thou  shalt 
go  to  save  the  nation  from  calamity,  ready  to  bear  the 
crushing  of  thy  bones  and  the  tearing  of  thy  flesh.  Dis- 
grace not  thy  ancestors  by  an  act  of  cowardice.'  "  This, 
it  is  clear,  is  an  attitude  quite  different  from  that  of  an 
Englishman  towards  the  King.  The  King,  to  us,  is  at  most 
a  symbol.  The  Emperor,  to  the  Japanese,  is,  or  was,  a  god. 
And  the  difference  may  be  noted  in  small  matters.  For 
instance,  a  Japanese,  writing  from  England,  observes  with 
astonishment  that  we  put  the  head  of  the  King  on  our 
stamps  and  cover  it  with  postmarks.  That,  to  a  Japanese, 
seems  to  be  blasphemy.  Again,  he  is  puzzled,  at  the  Coro- 
nation in  Westminster  Abbey,  to  find  the  people  looking 
down  from  above  on  the  King.  That,  again,  seems  to  him 
blasphemy.  Last  year,  when  the  Emperor  was  dying, 
crowds  knelt  hour  after  hour,  day  and  night,  on  the  road 
beside  the  palace  praying  for  him.  And  a  photographer 
who  took  a  picture  of  them  by  flashlight  was  literally  torn 
to  pieces.  One  could  multiply  examples,  but  the  thing 
is  plain.  The  national  spirit  of  Japan  centres  about  the 
divinity  of  the  Emperor.  And  precisely  therein  lies  their 
present  problem.  For  one  may  say,  I  think,  with  confidence, 
that  this  attitude  cannot  endure,  and  is  already  disappear- 
ing.   Western  thought  is  an  irresistible  solvent  of  all  irra- 

[113I 


APPEARANCES 

tional  and  instinctive  ideas.  Men  cannot  be  engineers  and 
pathologists  and  at  the  same  time  believe  that  a  man  is  a 
god.  They  cannot  be  historians  and  at  the  same  time  be- 
lieve that  their  first  Emperor  came  down  from  heaven. 
Above  all,  they  cannot  be  politicians  and  abstain  from  an- 
alysing the  real  source  and  sanction  of  political  power. 
English  political  experience,  it  is  true,  suggests  immense 
possibilities  in  the  way  of  cUnging  to  fictions  with  the  feeU 
ings  while  insisting  upon  facts  in  practice.  And  the  famous 
verse: 

"  But  I  was  thinking  of  a  plan 
To  dye  my  whiskers  green, 
And  always  wear  so  large  a  fan 
That  they  should  not  be  seen," 

might  have  been  written  to  summarise  the  development  of 
the  British  Constitution.  But  the  success  of  that  method 
depends  upon  the  condition  that  the  fictions  shall  be 
nothing  but  fictions.  The  feelings  of  the  English  can  centre 
about  the  King  only  because  they  are  well  assured  that  he 
does  not  and  will  not  govern.  But  that  condition  does 
not  exist  in  Japan.  The  Japanese  Constitution  is  con- 
ceived on  the  German,  not  the  English  model;  and  it 
bristles  with  clauses  which  are  intended  to  prevent  the 
development  which  has  taken  place  in  England — the  shift- 
ing of  power  from  the  Sovereign  to  a  Parliamentary  ma- 
jority. The  Ministers  are  the  Emperor's  Ministers;  the 
policy  is  the  Emperor's  policy.     That  is  the  whole  tenor 

[114] 


DIVINE  RIGHT  IN  JAPAN 

of  the  Constitution.  No  Constitution,  it  is  true,  can 
"trammel  up"  facts  and  put  power  anywhere  but  where 
nature  puts  it.  If  an  Emperor  is  not  a  strong  man  he  will 
not  govern,  and  his  Ministers  will.  And  it  seems  to  be 
well  understood  among  Japanese  politicians  that  the  per- 
sonal will  of  the  Emperor  does  not,  in  fact,  count  for  very 
much.  But  it  is  supposed  to;  and  that  must  become  an 
important  point  so  soon  as  conflict  develops  between  the 
Parliament  and  the  Government.  And  such  conflict  is 
bound  to  arise,  and  is  already  arising.  Japanese  parties, 
it  is  true,  stand  for  persons  rather  than  principles;  and  the 
real  governing  power  hitherto  has  been  a  body  quite  un- 
known to  the  Constitution  —  namely,  the  group  of  "Elder 
Statesmen,"  But  there  are  signs  that  this  group  is  disin- 
tegrating, and  that  its  members  are  beginning  to  recognise 
the  practical  necessity  of  forming  and  depending  upon  a 
party  in  the  country  and  the  House  of  Representatives. 
The  crisis  which  led,  the  other  day,  to  the  fall  of  Prince 
Katsura  was  provoked  by  popular  tumults;  and  it  was 
noticeable  that,  for  the  first  time,  the  name  of  the  Em- 
peror was  introduced  into  political  controversy.  It  seems 
clear  that  in  the  near  future  either  the  Emperor  must 
appear  openly  as  a  fighting  force,  as  the  German  Emperor 
does,  or  he  must  subside  into  a  figurehead  and  the  gov- 
ernment pass  into  the  hands  of  Parliament.  The  former 
alternative  is  quite  incompatible  with  the  idea  of  the  god- 
king;  the  latter  might  not  be  repugnant  to  it  if  other 
things  tender  to  foster  it.    But  it  is  so  clear  that  they  do 

[115] 


APPEARANCES 

not!  An  Emperor  who  is  titular  head  of  a  Parliamentary 
Government  might,  and  in  Japan  no  doubt  would,  be  sur- 
rounded with  affection  and  respect.  He  could  never  be 
seriously  regarded  as  divine.  For  that  whole  notion  be- 
longs to  an  age  innocent  of  all  that  is  implied  in  the  very 
possibility  of  Parliamentary  government.  It  belongs  to 
the  age  of  mythology  and  poetry,  not  to  the  age  of  reason. 
Japanese  patriotism  in  the  future  must  depend  on  love  of 
country,  unsupported  by  the  once  powerful  sanction  of  a 
divine  personality. 

If  this  be  true,  I  question  very  much  the  wisdom  of 
that  part  of  the  Japanese  educational  system  which  en- 
deavours to  centre  all  duty  about  the  person  of  the  Em- 
peror. The  Japanese  are  trying  a  great  experiment  in 
State-imposed  morality  —  a  pohcy  highly  questionable  at 
the  best,  but  becoming  almost  demonstrably  absurd  when 
it  is  based  on  an  idea  which  is  foredoomed  to  discredit. 
The  well-known  Imperial  rescript,  which  is  kept  framed 
in  every  school,  reads  as  follows: 

"Our  Ancestors  founded  the  State  on  a  vast  basis,  and 
deeply  implanted  virtue;  and  Our  subjects,  by  their 
unanimity  in  their  great  loyalty  and  filial  affection,  have 
in  all  ages  shown  these  qualities  in  perfection.  Such  is  the 
essential  beauty  of  Our  national  polity,  and  such,  too,  is 
the  true  spring  of  Our  educational  system.  You,  Our  be- 
loved subjects,  be  filial  to  your  parents,  affectionate  to  your 
brothers,  be  loving  husbands  and  wives,  and  truthful  to 

[ii6] 


DIVINE  RIGHT  IN  JAPAN 

your  friends.  Conduct  yourselves  with  modesty,  and  be 
benevolent  to  all.  Develop  your  intellectual  faculties  and 
perfect  your  moral  power  by  gaining  knowledge  and  by 
acquiring  a  profession.  Further,  promote  the  public  in- 
terest and  advance  the  public  affairs;  and  in  case  of  emer- 
gency, courageously  sacrifice  yourself  to  the  public  good. 
Thus  offer  every  support  to  Our  Imperial  Dynasty,  which 
shall  be  as  lasting  as  the  Universe.  You  will  then  not  only 
be  Our  most  loyal  subjects,  but  will  be  enabled  to  exhibit 
the  noble  character  of  your  ancestors. 

"Such  are  the  testaments  left  us  by  Our  Ancestors, 
which  must  be  observed  alike  by  their  descendants  and 
subjects.  These  precepts  are  perfect  throughout  all  ages 
and  of  universal  application.  It  is  Our  desire  to  bear 
them  in  Our  heart,  in  common  with  you  Our  subjects,  to 
the  end  that  we  may  constantly  possess  their  virtues." 

This  rescript  may  be  read  with  admiration.  But  com- 
mon sense  would  teach  every  Westerner  that  a  document 
so  framed  is  at  variance  with  the  whole  bent  of  the  modem 
mind,  and,  if  forced  upon  it,  could  only  goad  it  into  re- 
bellion. And  such,  I  have  been  informed,  and  easily  be- 
lieve, is  the  effect  it  is  beginning  to  have  in  Japan.  Young 
people  brought  up  on  Western  languages  and  Western 
science  demand  a  Western,  that  is  a  rational,  sanction  for 
conduct.  They  do  not  believe  the  Emperor  to  be  divine, 
and  therefore  they  cannot  take  their  moral  principles  on 
trust  from  him  and  from  his  ancestors.    The  violent  re- 

[117] 


APPEARANCES 

action  from  this  State-imposed  doctrine  drives  them  in- 
to sheer  scepticism  and  anarchy.  And  here,  as  always 
throughout  history,  authority  defeats  its  own  purposes. 
Western  ideas  cannot  be  taken  in  part.  They  cannot  be 
appUed  to  the  natural  world  and  fenced  off  from  the  moral 
world.  Japan  must  go  through  the  same  crisis  through 
which  the  West  is  passing;  she  must  revise  the  whole  basis 
of  her  traditional  morals.  And  in  doing  so  she  must  be 
content  to  lose  that  passionate  and  simple  devotion  which 
is  the  good  as  well  as  the  evil  product  of  an  age  of  uncritical 
faith. 


[ii8] 


FUJI 

It  was  raining  when  we  reached  Gotemba  and  took  off  our 
boots  at  the  entrance  of  the  inn.  I  had  never  before 
stayed  at  a  Japanese  inn,  and  this  one,  so  my  friend  as- 
sured me,  was  a  bad  specimen  of  the  class.  Certainly  it 
was  disorderly  and  dirty.  It  was  also  overcrowded.  But 
that  was  inevitable,  for  a  thousand  pilgrims  in  a  day  were 
landing  at  Gotemba  station.  Men  and  women,  young 
and  old,  grandparents,  parents,  children  come  flocking  in 
to  climb  the  great  mountain.  The  village  street  is  lined 
with  inns;  and  in  front  of  each  stood  a  boy  with  a  lantern 
hailing  the  new  arrivals.  We  were  able,  in  spite  of  the 
crowd,  to  secure  a  room  to  ourselves,  and  even,  with 
difficulty,  some  water  to  wash  in  —  too  many  people  had 
used  and  were  using  the  one  bath!  A  table  and  a  chair 
were  provided  for  the  foreigner,  and  very  uncouth  they 
looked  in  the  pretty  Japanese  room.  But  a  bed  was  out 
of  the  question.  One  had  to  sleep  on  the  floor  among 
the  fleas.  Certainly  it  was  not  comfortable;  but  it  was 
amusing.  From  my  room  in  the  upper  story  I  looked 
into  the  whole  row  of  rooms  in  the  inn  opposite,  thrown 
open  to  the  street,  with  their  screens  drawn  back.    One 

[119] 


APPEARANCES 

saw  families  and  parties,  a  dozen  or  more  in  a  room,  dress- 
ing and  imdressing,  naked  and  clothed,  sleeping,  eating 
talking;  all,  of  course,  squatting  on  the  floor,  with  a  low 
stool  for  a  table,  and  red-lacquered  bowls  for  plates  and 
dishes.  How  people  manage  to  eat  rice  with  chop-sticks 
will  always  be  a  mystery  to  me.  For  my  own  part,  I 
cannot  even  —  but  I  will  not  open  that  humiliating 
chapter. 

Of  the  night,  the  less  said  the  better.  I  rose  with  relief, 
but  dressed  with  embarrassment;  for  the  girl  who  waited 
on  us  selected  the  moment  of  my  toilet  to  clean  the  room. 
It  was  still  raining  hard,  and  we  had  decided  to  abandon 
our  expedition,  for  another  night  in  that  inn  was  unthink- 
able. But,  about  eleven,  a  gleam  of  sun  encouraged  us 
to  proceed,  and  we  started  on  horseback  for  the  mountain. 
And  here  I  must  note  that  by  the  official  tariff,  approved 
by  the  poHce,  a  foreigner  is  charged  twice  as  much  for  a 
horse  as  a  Japanese.  If  one  asks  why,  one  is  calmly  in- 
formed that  a  foreigner,  as  a  rule,  is  heavier!  This  is 
typical  of  travel  in  Japan;  and  there  have  been  moments 
when  I  have  sympathised  with  the  Californians  in  their 
discrimination  against  the  Japanese.  Those  moments, 
however,  are  rare  and  brief,  and  speedily  repented  of. 

Naturally,  as  soon  as  we  had  started  the  weather  clouded 
over  again.  We  rode  for  three  hours  at  a  foot-pace,  and 
by  the  time  we  left  our  horses  and  began  the  ascent  on 
foot  we  were  wrapped  in  thick,  cold  mist.  There  is  no 
difficulty  about  climbing  Fuji,  except  the  fatigue.     You 

[120] 


FUJI 

simply  walk  for  hours  up  a  steep  and  ever-steeper  heap 
of  ashes.  It  was  perhaps  as  well  that  we  did  not  see  what 
lay  before  us,  or  we  might  have  been  discouraged.  We 
saw  nothing  but  the  white-grey  mist  and  the  purple-grey 
soil.  Except  that,  looming  out  of  the  cloud  just  in  front 
of  us,  there  kept  appearing  and  vanishing  a  long  line  of 
pilgrims,  with  peaked  hats,  capes,  and  sandals,  all  made  of 
straw,  winding  along  with  their  staffs,  forty  at  least, 
keeping  step,  like  figures  in  a  frieze,  like  shadows  on  a  sheet, 
like  spirits  on  the  mountain  of  Purgatory,  like  anything 
but  solid  men  walking  up  a  hill.  So  for  hours  we  laboured 
on,  the  slope  becoming  steeper  every  step,  till  we  could  go 
no  further,  and  stopped  at  a  shelter  to  pass  the  night. 
Here  we  were  lucky.  The  other  climbers  had  halted  below 
or  above,  and  we  had  the  long,  roomy  shed  to  ourselves. 
Blankets,  a  fire  of  wood,  and  a  good  meal  restored  us. 
We  sat  warming  and  congratulating  ourselves,  when  sud- 
denly oiu*  guide  at  the  door  gave  a  cry.  We  hurried  to 
see.  And  what  a  sight  it  was!  The  clouds  lay  below  us 
and  a  starlit  sky  above.  At  our  feet  the  mountain  fell 
away  like  a  cliff,  but  it  fell  rather  to  a  glacier  than  a  sea  — ■ 
a  glacier  infinite  as  the  ocean,  yawning  in  crevasses,  bil- 
lowing in  ridges;  a  glacier  not  of  ice,  but  of  vapour,  chang- 
ing form  as  one  watched,  opening  here,  closing  there,  ris- 
ing, falling,  shifting,  whUe  far  away,  at  the  uttermost 
verge,  appeared  a  crimson  crescent,  then  a  red  oval,  then  a 
yellow  globe,  swimming  up  above  the  clouds,  touching 
their  lights  with  gold,  deepening  their  shadows,  and  spreadi- 

[I2l] 


APPEARANCES 

ing,  where  it  rose,  a  lake  of  silver  fire  over  the  surface  of 
the  tossing  plain. 

We  looked  till  it  was  too  cold  to  look  longer,  then 
wrapped  ourselves  in  quilts  and  went  to  sleep.  At  mid- 
night I  woke.  Outside  there  was  a  strange  moaning 
The  wind  had  risen;  and  the  sound  of  it  in  that  lonely 
place  gave  me  a  shock  of  fear.  The  mountain,  then, 
w^as  more  than  a  heap  of  dead  ashes.  Presences  haunted 
it;  powers  indifferent  to  human  fate.  That  wind  had 
blown  before  man  came  into  being,  and  would  blow  when 
he  had  ceased  to  exist.  It  moaned  and  roared.  Then 
it  was  still.  But  I  could  not  sleep  again,  and  lay  watch- 
ing the  flicker  of  the  lamp  on  the  long  wooden  roof,  and 
the  streaks  of  moonlight  through  the  chinks,  till  the  coolie 
lit  a  fire  and  called  us  to  get  up.  We  started  at  four. 
The  clouds  were  still  below,  and  the  moon  above;  but 
she  had  moved  across  to  the  west,  Orion  had  appeared, 
and  a  new  planet  blazed  in  the  east.  The  last  climb  was 
very  steep  and  our  breath  very  scant.  But  we  had  other 
things  than  that  to  think  of.  Through  a  rift  in  a  cloud 
to  the  eastward  dawned  a  salmon-coloured  glow;  it  bright- 
ened to  fire;  lit  up  the  clouds  above  and  the  clouds  below; 
blazed  more  and  intolerably,  till,  as  we  reached  the  summit, 
the  sun  leapt  into  view  and  sent  a  long  line  of  light  down 
the  tumultuous  sea  of  rolling  cloud. 

How  cold  it  was!  And  what  an  atmosphere  inside 
the  highest  shelter,  where  sleepers  had  been  packed  like 
sardines  and  the  newly  kindled  fire  filled  the  fetid  air 

[122] 


FUJI 

with  acrid  smoke!  What  there  was  to  be  seen  we  saw 
—  the  crater,  neither  wide  nor  deep;  the  Shinto  temple, 
where  a  priest  was  intoning  prayers;  and  the  Post  Office, 
where  an  enterprising  Government  sells  picture-postcards 
for  triumphant  pilgrims  to  despatch  to  their  friends.  My 
friend  must  have  written  at  least  a  dozen,  while  I  waited 
and  shivered  with  numbed  feet  and  hands.  But  after 
an  hour  we  began  the  descent,  and  quickly  reached  the 
shelter  where  we  were  to  breakfast.  Thence  we  had  to 
plunge  again  into  the  clouds.  But  before  doing  so  we  took 
a  long  look  at  the  marvellous  scene  —  more  marvellous 
than  any  view  of  earth;  icebergs  tossing  ui  a  sea,  mountains 
exhaling  and  vanishing,  magic  castles  and  palaces  tower- 
ing across  infinite  space.  A  step,  and  once  more  the  white- 
grey  mist  and  the  purple-grey  soil.  But  the  clouds  had 
moved  higher;  and  it  was  not  long  before  we  saw,  to  the 
south,  cliffs  and  the  sea,  to  the  east,  the  gleam  of  green 
fields,  nmning  up,  under  cloud-shadows,  to  moimtain 
ridges  and  peaks.  And  so  back  to  Gotemba,  and  our  now 
odious  inn. 

We  would  not  stop  there.  So  we  parted,  my  friend 
for  Tokio,  I  for  Kyoto.  But  time-tables  had  been  fal- 
lacious, and  I  found  myself  landed  at  Numatsa,  with 
four  hours  to  wait  for  the  night  train,  no  comfort  in  the 
waiting-room,  and  no  Japanese  words  at  my  command. 
I  understood  then  a  little  better  why  foreigners  are  so 
offensive  in  the  East.  They  do  not  know  the  language; 
they  find  themselves  impotent  where  their  instinct  is 

[123] 


APPEARANCES 

to  domineer;  and  they  visit  on  the  Oriental  the  ill-temper 
which  is  really  produced  by  their  own  incompetence. 
Yes,  I  must  confess  that  I  had  to  remind  myself  severely 
that  it  was  I,  and  not  the  Japanese,  who  was  stupid.  At 
last  the  station-master  came  to  my  rescue  —  the  station- 
master  always  speaks  English.  He  endured  my  petulance 
with  the  unfailing  courtesy  and  patience  of  his  race,  and 
sent  me  off  at  last  in  a  rickshaw  to  the  beach,  and  a 
Japanese  hotel.  But  my  troubles  were  not  ended.  I 
reached  the  hotel;  I  bowed  and  smiled  to  the  group  of 
kow-towing  girls;  but  how  to  tell  them  that  I  wanted  a 
bath  and  a  meal?  Signs  were  unavailing.  We  looked 
at  one  another  and  laughed,  but  that  did  not  help.  At 
last  they  sent  for  a  student  who  knew  a  little  English, 
I  could  have  hugged  him.  "It  is  a  great  pity,"  he  said, 
"that  these  people  do  not  know  English."  The  pity,  I 
replied,  was  that  I  did  not  know  Japanese,  but  his  courtesy 
repudiated  the  suggestion.  Could  I  have  a  bathing 
costume?  Of  course!  And  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
he  brought  me  a  wet  one.  Where  could  I  change?  He 
showed  me  a  room;  and  presently  I  was  swimming  in  the 
sea,  with  such  delight  as  he  only  can  know  who  has 
ascended  and  descended  Fuji  without  the  chance  of  a 
bath.  Returning  to  the  inn,  I  wandered  about  in  my  wet 
costume  seeking  vainly  the  room  in  which  I  had  changed. 
Laughing  girls  pushed  me  here,  and  pulled  me  there, 
uncomprehending  of  my  pantomime,  till  one  at  last, 
quicker  than  the  rest,  pulled  back  a  slide,  and  revealed 

[124] 


FUJI 

the  room  I  was  seeking.  Then  came  dinner  —  soup, 
fried  fish,  and  rice;  and  —  for  my  weakness  —  a  spoon  and 
fork  to  eat  them  with.  The  whole  house  seemed  to 
be  open,  and  one  looked  into  every  room,  watching  the 
ways  of  these  gay  and  charming  people.  At  last  I  paid 
—  to  accomplish  that  by  pantomime  was  easy,  — and 
said  good-bye  to  my  hostess  and  her  maids,  who  bowed 
their  heads  to  the  ground  and  smiled  as  though  I  had  been 
the  most  honoured  of  guests  instead  of  a  clumsy  foreigner, 
fit  food  for  mirth.  A  walk  in  a  twilight  pine  wood,  and 
then  back  to  the  station,  where  I  boarded  the  night  train, 
and  slept  fitfully  until  five,  when  we  reached  Kyoto,  and 
my  wanderings  were  over.  How  I  enjoyed  the  comfort 
of  the  best  hotel  in  the  East!  But  also  how  I  regretted 
that  I  had  not  long  ago  learnt  to  find  comfort  in  the  far 
more  beautiful  manner  of  life  of  Japan ! 


[125] 


VI 

JAPAN  AND  AMERICA 

On  the  reasons,  real  or  alleged,  for  the  hostility  of  the 
Calif  ornians  to  the  Japanese  this  is  not  the  place  to  dwell. 
At  bottom,  it  is  a  conflict  of  civilisations,  a  conflict  which 
is  largely  due  to  ignorance  and  misunderstanding,  and 
which  should  never  be  allowed  to  develop  into  avowed 
antagonism.  For  with  time,  patience,  and  sympathy  it 
will  disappear  of  itself.  The  patience  and  sympathy,  I 
think,  are  not  lacking  on  the  side  of  the  Japanese,  but  they 
are  sadly  lacking  among  the  Californians,  and  indeed 
among  all  white  men  in  Western  America.  The  truth  is 
that  the  Western  pioneer  knows  nothing  of  Japan  and 
wants  to  know  nothing.  And  he  would  be  much  astor^- 
ished,  not  to  say  indignant,  were  he  told  that  the  civilisa- 
tion of  Japan  is  higher  than  that  of  America.  Yet  there 
can,  I  think,  be  no  doubt  that  this  is  the  case,  if  real  values 
be  taken  as  a  standard.  America,  and  the  "  new  "  coun- 
tries generally,  have  contributed,  so  far,  nothing  to  the 
world  except  material  prosperity.  I  do  not  under-esti- 
mate  this.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  subdued  a  con- 
tinent. And  it  may  be  argued  that  those  who  are  engaged 
in  this  task  have  no  energy  to  spare  for  other  activities. 

[126] 


JAPAN  AND  AMERICA 

But  the  Japanese  subdued  their  island  centuries,  even 
millenniums,  ago.  And,  having  reduced  it  to  as  high 
a  state  of  culture  as  they  required,  they  began  to  live 
—  a  thing  the  new  countries  have  not  yet  attempted. 

To  live,  in  the  sense  in  which  I  am  using  the  term, 
unplies  that  you  reflect  life  in  the  forms  of  art,  litera- 
ture, philosophy,  and  religion.  To  all  these  things  the 
Japanese  have  made  notable  contributions;  less  notable, 
indeed,  than  those  of  China,  from  whom  they  derived 
their  inspiration,  but  still  native,  genuine,  and  precious. 
To  take  first  bare  externals,  the  physical  life  of  the  Japanese 
is  beautiful.  I  read  with  amazement  the  other  day  a 
quotation  from  a  leading  Californian  newspaper  to  the 
effect  that  "there  is  an  instinctive  sense  of  physical  re- 
pugnance on  the  part  of  the  Western  or  European  races 
towards  the  Japanese  race"!  Had  the  writer,  I  wonder, 
ever  been  in  Japan?  Perhaps  it  would  have  made  no 
difference  to  him  if  he  had,  for  he  is  evidently  one  of  those 
who  cannot  or  will  not  see.  But  to  me  the  first  and 
chief  impression  of  Japan  is  the  physical  attractiveness 
of  the  people.  The  Japanese  are  perfectly  proportioned; 
their  joints,  their  hands,  their  feet,  their  hips,  are  elegant 
and  fine;  and  they  display  to  the  best  advantage  these 
natural  graces  by  a  costume  which  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is 
simple.  To  see  these  perfect  figures  walking,  running, 
mounting  stairs,  bathing,  even  pulling  rickshaws,  is  to 
receive  a  constant  stream  of  shocks  of  surprise  and  delight. 
In  so  much  that,  after  some  weeks  in  the  country,  I  begin 

[127] 


APPEARANCES 

to  feel  "  a  sense  of  physical  repugnance  "  to  Americans 
and  Europeans  —  a  sense  which,  if  I  were  as  uneducated 
and  inexperienced  as  the  writer  in  the  Argonaut,  I  should 
call  "  instinctive,"  and  make  the  basis  of  a  campaign  of 
race-hatred.  The  misfortune  is  that  the  Japanese  abandon 
their  own  dress  when  they  go  abroad.  And  in  European 
dress,  which  they  do  not  understand,  and  which  conceals 
their  bodies,  they  are  apt  to  look  mean  and  vulgar.  Simi- 
larly, in  European  dress,  they  lose  their  own  perfect  man- 
ners and  mis-acquire  the  worst  of  the  West.  So  that 
there  may  be  some  excuse  for  feeling  "  repugnance  "  to 
the  Japanese  abroad,  though,  of  course,  it  is  merely  absurd 
and  barbarous  to  base  upon  such  superficial  distaste  a 
policy  of  persecution  and  insult. 

If  we  turn  from  the  body  to  the  mind  and  the  spirit, 
the  Japanese  show  themselves  in  no  respect  inferior, 
and  in  some  important  respects  superior,  to  the  Ameri- 
cans. New  though  they  are  to  the  whole  mental  attitude 
which  underlies  science  and  its  applications,  they  have 
already,  in  half  a  century,  produced  physicians,  surgeons, 
pathologists,  engineers  who  can  hold  their  own  with  the 
best  of  Europe  and  America.  All  that  the  West  can  do 
in  this,  its  own  special  sphere,  the  Japanese,  late-comers 
though  they  be,  are  showing  that  they  can  do,  too.  In 
particular,  to  apply  the  only  test  which  the  Western 
nations  seem  really  to  accept,  they  can  build  ships,  train 
men,  organise  a  campaign,  and  beat  a  great  Western 
Power  at  the  West's  own  game  of  slaughter.    But  all 

[128] 


JAPAN  AND  AMERICA 

this,  of  science  and  armaments,  big  though  it  bulks  in 
our  imagination,  is  secondary  and  subordinate  in  a  true 
estimate  of  civilisation.  The  great  claim  the  Japanese 
may  make,  as  I  began  by  saying,  is  that  they  have  known 
how  to  live;  and  they  have  proved  that  by  the  only  test 
—  by  the  way  they  have  reflected  life. 

Japanese  literature  and  art  may  not  be  as  great  as 
that  of  Europe;  but  it  exists,  whereas  that  of  America 
and  all  the  new  countries  is  yet  to  seek.  While  Europe 
was  still  plunged  in  the  darkest  of  the  Dark  Ages,  Japanese 
poets  were  already  producing  songs  in  exquisite  response 
to  the  beauty  of  nature,  the  passion  and  pathos  of  human 
life.  From  the  seventh  century  on,  their  painting  and 
their  sculpture  were  reflecting  in  tender  and  gracious  forms 
the  mysteries  of  their  faith.  Their  literature  and  their 
art  changed  its  content  and  its  form  with  the  centuries, 
but  it  continued  without  a  break,  in  a  stream  of  genuine 
inspiration,  down  to  the  time  when  the  West  forced  open 
the  doors  of  Japan  to  the  world.  From  that  moment, 
under  the  new  influences,  it  has  sickened  and  declined. 
But  what  a  record!  And  a  record  that  is  also  an  incon- 
trovertible proof  that  the  Japanese  belong  to  the  civilised 
nations  —  the  nations  that  can  live  and  express  life. 

But  perhaps  this  test  may  be  rejected.  Morals,  it  may 
be  urged,  is  the  touchstone  of  civilisation,  not  art.  Well, 
take  morals.  The  question  is  a  large  one;  but,  sununarily, 
where  do  the  Japanese  fail,  as  compared  with  the  Western 
nations?    Is  patriotism  the  standard?    In  this  respect 

[129I 


APPEARANCES 

what  nation  can  compete  with  them?  Is  it  courage? 
What  people  are  braver?  Is  it  industry?  Who  is  more 
industrious?  It  is  their  very  industry  that  has  aroused 
the  jealous  fears  of  the  Californians.  Is  it  family  life? 
Where,  outside  the  East,  is  found  such  soUdarity  as  in 
Japan?  Is  it  sexual  purity?  On  that  point,  what  Wes- 
tern nation  can  hold  up  its  head?  Is  it  honesty?  What  of 
the  honesty  of  the  West?  No;  no  Westerner,  knowing 
the  facts,  could  for  a  moment  maintain  that,  all  round  and 
on  the  whole,  the  morals  of  the  Japanese  are  inferior  to 
those  of  Europe  or  America.  It  would  probably  be  easier 
to  maintain  the  opposite.  Judged  by  every  real  test  the 
Japanese  civiUsation  is  not  lower,  it  is  higher  than  that 
of  any  of  the  new  countries  who  refuse  to  permit  the 
Japanese  to  live  among  them. 

That,  I  admit,  does  not  settle  the  question.  Competent 
and  impartial  men  like  Admiral  Mahan,  who  would  admit 
all  that  I  have  urged,  still  maintain  that  the  Japanese 
ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  settle  in  the  West.  This  con- 
clusion I  do  not  now  discuss.  The  point  I  wish  to  make 
is  that  the  question  can  never  be  fairly  faced,  in  a  dry 
light,  and  with  reference  only  to  the  simple  facts,  until 
the  prejudice  is  broken  up  and  destroyed  that  the  Japanese, 
and  all  other  Orientals,  are  "inferior"  races.  It  is  this 
prejudice  which  distorts  all  the  facts  and  all  the  values, 
which  makes  Californians  and  British  Columbians  and 
Australians  sheerly  unreasonable,  and  causes  them  to 
jump  at  one  argument  after  another,  each  more  fallacious 

[130] 


JAPAN  AND  AMERICA 

than  the  last,  to  defend  an  attitude  which  at  bottom  is 
nothing  but  the  childish  and  ignorant  hatred  of  the  un- 
cultivated man  for  everything  strange.  If  the  Japanese 
had  had  white  skins,  should  we  ever  have  heard  of  the 
economic  argument?  And  should  we  ever  have  been 
presented  with  that  new  shibboleth  "unassimilable"? 


1 131 1 


VII 

HOME 

Moscow,  Berlin,  Paris,  London!  What  a  crescendo  of 
life!  What  a  quickening  of  the  flow!  What  a  gathering 
intensity!  "Whatever  else  we  may  think  of  the  West," 
I  said  to  the  young  French  artist,  "it  is,  at  any  rate,  the 
centre  of  life."  "Yes,"  he  replied,  "but  the  curious  thing 
is  that  that  Life  produces  only  Death.  Dead  things,  and 
dead  people."  I  reflected.  Yes!  The  things  certainly 
were  dead.  Look  at  the  Louvre !  Look  at  the  Madeleine ! 
Look  at  any  of  the  streets !  Machine-men  had  made  it  all, 
not  human  souls.  The  men  were  dead,  then,  too?  "Cer- 
tainly!" he  insisted.  "Their  works  are  a  proof.  Where 
there  is  life  there  is  art.  And  there  is  no  art  in  the  modern 
world  —  neither  in  the  East  nor  in  the  West."  "Then 
what  is  this  that  looks  like  Life?  "  I  said,  looking  at  the 
roaring  streets.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said, 
"Steam." 

With  that  in  my  mind,  I  crossed  to  England,  and  forgot 
criticism  and  speculation  in  the  gleam  of  the  white  cliffs, 
in  the  trim  hedgerows  and  fields,  in  the  sound  of  English 
voices  and  the  sight  of  English  faces.  In  London  it  was 
the  same.    The  bright-cheeked  messenger  boys,  the  dis^ 

[132I 


HOME 

erectly  swaggering  chauffeurs,  the  quiet,  competent  young 
men  in  City  offices  who  reassured  me  about  my  baggage, 
the  autumn  sun  on  the  maze  of  misty  streets,  the  vast 
picturesqueness  of  London,  its  beauty  as  of  a  mountain 
or  the  sea,  fairly  carried  me  off  my  feet.  And  passing  St. 
Paul's  —  "Dead,"  I  muttered,  as  I  looked  at  its  derivative 
facade,  —  I  went  in  to  take  breath.  From  the  end  of  the 
vast,  cold  space  came  the  dreary  wail  I  remembered  so 
well.  I  had  heard  Church  music  at  Moscow,  and  knew 
what  it  ought  to  be.  But  the  tremendous  passion  of  that 
Eastern  plain-song,  would  have  offended  these  discreet 
walls.  I  was  in  a  "sacred  edifice";  and  with  a  pang  of 
regret  I  recalled  the  wooden  shrines  of  Japan  under  the 
great  trees,  the  solemn  Buddhas,  and  the  crowds  of  cheer- 
ful worshippers.  I  walked  down  the  empty  nave  and 
came  under  the  dome.  Then  something  happened  —  the 
thing  that  always  happens  when  one  comes  into  touch 
with  the  work  of  a  genius.  And  Wren's  dome  proves  that 
he  was  that.  I  sat  down,  and  the  organ  began  to  play; 
or  rather,  the  dome  began  to  sing.  And  down  the  stream 
of  music  floated  in  fragments  visions  of  my  journey  — 
Indians  nude  like  bronzes,  blue-coated  Chinese,  white 
robes  and  bare  limbs  from  Japan,  plains  of  com,  plains  of 
rice,  plains  of  scorched  grass;  snow-peaks  under  the  stars, 
volcanoes,  green  and  black;  huge  rivers,  tumbling  streams, 
waterfalls,  lakes,  the  ocean;  hovels  and  huts  of  wood  or 
sun-dried  bricks,  thatched  or  tiled;  marble  palaces  and 
baths;  red  lacquer,  golden  tiles;  saints,  kings,  conquerors, 

[133] 


APPEARANCES 

and,  enduring  or  worshipping  these,  a  myriad  generations 
of  peasants  through  long  millenniums,  toiling,  suffering, 
believing,  in  one  unchanging  course  of  life,  before  the 
dawn  of  history  on  and  down  to  here  and  now.  As  they 
were,  so  they  are;  and  I  heard  them  sound  as  with  the 
drone  of  Oriental  music.  Then  above  that  drone  some- 
thing new  appeared.  Late  in  time.  Western  history 
emerged,  and  —  astonishing  thing  —  began  to  move  and 
change!  "Why,"  I  said,  "there's  something  trying  to 
happen!  What  is  it?  Is  there  going  to  be  a  melody?" 
There  was  not  one.  But  there  was  —  has  the  reader  ever 
heard  the  second  —  or  is  it  the  third?  —  overture  to 
"Leonora"?  A  scale  begins  to  run  up,  first  on  the  violins; 
then  one  by  one  the  other  instruments  join  in,  till  the 
great  basses  are  swept  into  the  current  and  run  and  scale, 
too.  So  it  was  here.  The  West  began;  but  the  East 
caught  it  up.  The  unchanging  drone  began  to  move  and 
flow.  Faster  and  faster,  louder  and  louder,  more  and 
more  intensely,  crying  and  flaming  towards  —  what? 
Beethoven  knew,  and  put  it  into  his  music.  We  cannot 
put  it  into  ideas  or  words.  We  can  see  the  problem,  not 
the  solution;  and  the  problem  is  this:  To  reconcile  the 
Western  flight  down  Time  with  the  Eastern  rest  in  Eter- 
nity; the  Western  multiformity  with  the  Eastern  identity; 
the  Western  energy  with  the  Eastern  peace.  For  God  is 
neither  Time  nor  Eternity,  but  Time  in  Eternity;  neither 
One  nor  Many,  but  One  in  Many;  neither  Spirit  nor 
Matter,  but  Matter-Spirit.    That  the  great  artists  know, 

[134] 


HOME 

and  the  great  saints;  the  modem  artists  and  the  modem 
saints,  who  have  been  or  who  will  be.  Goethe  was  one; 
Beethoven  was  one;  and  there  will  be  greater,  when  the 
contact  between  East  and  West  becomes  closer,  and  the 
sparks  from  pole  to  pole  fly  faster. 

I  had  dropped  into  mere  thinking,  and  realised  that  the 
organ  had  stopped.  I  left  the  great  church  and  came  out 
upon  the  back  of  Queen  Anne,  which  made  me  laugh. 
Still,  it  was  quite  religious;  so  were  the  'buses,  and  the 
motor-cars,  and  the  shops  and  offices,  and  the  Law  Courts, 
and  the  top-hats,  and  the  crossLag-s weepers.  "Dear 
people,"  I  said,  "you  are  not  dead,  any  more  than  I  am. 
You  think  you  are,  as  I,  too,  often  do.  When  you  feel 
dead  you  should  go  to  church;  but  not  in  a  'sacred  edifice.' 
Beethoven,  even  in  the  Queen's  Hall,  is  better." 


[135] 


PART  IV 
AMERICA 


THE  "DIVINE  AVERAGE" 

The  great  countries  of  the  East  have  each  a  civilisation 
that  is  original,  if  not  independent.  India,  China,  Japan, 
each  has  a  peculiar  outlook  on  the  world.  Not  so  America, 
at  any  rate  in  the  north.  America,  we  might  say,  does 
not  exist;  there  exists  instead  an  offshoot  of  Europe.  Nor 
does  an  "American  spirit"  exist;  there  exists  instead  the 
spirit  of  the  average  Western  man.  Americans  are  immi- 
grants and  descendants  of  immigrants.  Putting  aside 
the  negroes  and  a  handful  of  Orientals,  there  is  nothing  to 
be  found  here  that  is  not  to  be  found  in  Western  Europe; 
only  here  what  thrives  is  not  what  is  distinctive  of  the 
different  European  countries,  but  what  is  common  to  them 
all.  What  America  does,  not,  of  course,  in  a  moment, 
but  with  incredible  rapidity,  is  to  obliterate  distinctions. 
The  Scotchman,  the  Irishman,  the  German,  the  Scandi- 
navian, the  Italian,  even,  I  suppose,  the  Czech,  drops  his 
costume,  his  manner,  his  language,  his  traditions,  his 
beliefs,  and  retains  only  his  common  Western  humanity. 
Transported  to  this  continent  all  the  varieties  developed 
in  Europe  revert  to  the  original  type,  and  flourish  in  un- 
exampled vigour  and  force.    It  is  not  a  new  type  that 

[139I 


APPEARANCES 

is  evolved;  it  is  the  fundamental  type,  growing  in  a  new 
soil,  in  luxuriant  profusion.  Describe  the  average  Western 
man  and  you  describe  the  American;  from  east  to  west, 
from  north  to  south,  everywhere  and  always  the  same 
—  masterful,  aggressive,  unscrupulous,  egotistic,  at  once 
good-natured  and  brutal,  kind  if  you  do  not  cross  him, 
ruthless  if  you  do,  greedy,  ambitious,  self-reliant,  active 
for  the  sake  of  activity,  intelligent  and  imintellectual, 
quick-witted  and  crass,  contemptuous  of  ideas  but  amorous 
of  devices,  valuing  nothing  but  success,  recognising  nothing 
but  the  actual,  Man  in  the  concrete,  imdisturbed  by  spirit- 
ual life,  the  master  of  methods  and  slave  of  things,  and 
therefore  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  the  unquestioning, 
the  undoubting,  the  child  with  the  muscles  of  a  man,  the 
European  stripped  bare,  and  shown  for  what  he  is,  a  preda- 
tory, unreflecting,  naif,  precociously  accomplished  brute. 

One  does  not  then  find  in  America  anything  one  does 
not  find  in  Europe;  but  one  finds  in  Europe  what  one  does 
not  find  in  America.  One  finds,  as  well  as  the  average, 
what  is  below  and  what  is  above  it.  America  has,  broadly 
speaking,  no  waste  products.  The  wreckage,  everywhere 
evident  in  Europe,  is  not  evident  there.  Men  do  not 
lose  their  self-respect,  they  win  it;  they  do  not  drop  out, 
they  work  in.  This  is  the  great  result  not  of  American 
institutions  or  ideas,  but  of  American  opportunities.  It 
is  the  poor  immigrant  who  ought  to  sing  the  praises  of  this 
continent.  He  alone  has  the  proper  point  of  view;  and 
he,  unfortunately,  is  dumb.    But  often,  when  I  have  con- 

[140I 


THE  "DIVINE  AVERAGE" 

templated  with  dreary  disgust,  in  the  outskirts  of  New 
York,  the  hideous,  wooden  shanties  planted  askew  in 
wastes  of  garbage,  and  remembered  Naples  or  Genoa  or 
Venice,  suddenly  it  has  been  borne  in  upon  me  that  the 
Italians  living  there  feel  that  they  have  their  feet  on  the 
ladder  leading  to  paradise;  that  for  the  first  time  they 
have  before  them  a  prospect  and  a  hope;  and  that  while 
they  have  lost,  or  are  losing,  their  manners,  their  beauty, 
and  their  charm,  they  have  gained  something  which,  in 
their  eyes,  and  perhaps  in  reality,  more  than  compensates 
for  losses  they  do  not  seem  to  feel,  they  have  gained  self- 
respect,  independence,  and  the  allure  of  the  open  horizon. 
"The  vision  of  America,"  a  friend  writes,  "is  the  vision 
of  the  lifting  up  of  the  millions."  This,  I  believe,  is  true, 
and  it  is  America's  great  contribution  to  civilisation.  I 
do  not  forget  it;  but  neither  shall  I  dwell  upon  it;  for 
though  it  is,  I  suppose,  the  most  important  thing  about 
America,  it  is  not  what  I  come  across  in  my  own  experience. 
What  strikes  more  often  and  more  directly  home  to  me  is 
the  other  fact  that  America,  if  she  is  not  burdened  by 
masses  lying  below  the  average,  is  also  not  inspired  by 
an  elite  rising  above  it.  Her  distinction  is  the  absence  of 
distinction.  No  wonder  Walt  Whitman  sang  the  "Divine 
Average."  There  was  nothing  else  in  America  for  him 
to  sing.  But  he  should  not  have  called  it  divine;  he  should 
have  called  it  "human,  all  too  human." 

Or  is  it    divine?    Divine    somehow  in   its   potenti- 
alities?   Divine  to  a  deeper  vision  than  mine?    I  was 

[141I 


APPEARANCES 

writing  this  at  Brooklyn,  in  a  room  that  looks  across 
the  East  River  to  New  York.  And  after  putting  down 
those  words,  "human,  all  too  human,"  I  stepped  out  on 
to  the  terrace.  Across  the  gulf  before  me  went  shooting 
forward  and  back  interminable  rows  of  fiery  shuttles; 
and  on  its  surface  seemed  to  float  blazing  basilicas.  Be- 
yond rose  into  the  darkness  a  dazzling  tower  of  light, 
dusking  and  shimmering,  primrose  and  green,  up  to  a 
diadem  of  gold.  About  it  hung  galaxies  and  constel- 
lations, outshining  the  firmament  of  stars;  and  all  the 
air  was  full  of  strange  voices,  more  than  hmnan,  ingemi- 
nating Babylonian  oracles  out  of  the  bosom  of  night. 
This  is  New  York.  This  it  is  that  the  average  man 
has  done,  he  knows  not  why;  this  is  the  symbol  of  his 
work,  so  much  more  than  himself,  so  much  more  than 
what  seems  to  be  itself  in  the  common  light  of  day, 
America  does  not  know  what  she  is  doing,  neither  do 
I  know,  nor  any  man.  But  the  impulse  that  drives 
her,  so  mean  and  poor  to  the  critic's  eye,  has  perhaps 
more  significance  in  the  eye  of  God;  and  the  optimism 
of  this  continent,  so  seeming-frivolous,  is  justified,  may 
be,  by  reason  lying  beyond  its  ken. 


[142] 


n 

A  CONTINENT  OF  PIONEERS 

The  American,  I  said,  in  the  previous  letter,  is  the  aver- 
age Western  man.  It  should  be  added,  he  is  the  average 
man  in  the  guise  of  pioneer.  Much  that  surprises  or 
shocks  Europeans  in  the  American  character  is  to  be 
explained,  I  believe,  by  this  fact.  Among  pioneers 
the  individual  is  everything  and  the  society  nothing. 
Every  man  relies  on  himself  and  on  his  personal  rela- 
tions. He  is  a  friend,  and  an  enemy;  he  is  never  a  citizen. 
Justice,  order,  respect  for  law,  honesty  even  and  honour 
are  to  him  mere  abstract  names;  what  is  real  is  intelligence 
and  force,  the  service  done  or  the  injury  inflicted,  the 
direct  emotional  reaction  to  persons  and  deeds.  And 
still,  as  it  seems  to  the  foreign  observer,  even  in  the  long- 
settled  East,  still  more  in  the  West,  this  attitude  prevails. 
To  the  American  politician  or  business  man,  that  a  thing 
is  right  or  wrong,  legal  or  illegal,  seems  a  pale  and  irrelevant 
consideration.  The  real  question  is,  will  it  pay?  will  it 
please  Theophilus  P.  Polk  or  vex  Harriman  Q.  Kunz?  If 
it  is  illegal,  will  it  be  detected?  If  detected,  will  it  be 
prosecuted?  What  are  our  resources  for  evading  or 
defeating  the  law?    And  all  this  with  good  temper  and 

[143] 


APPEARANCES 

good  conscience.  What  stands  in  the  way,  says  the 
pioneer,  must  be  swept  out  of  it;  no  matter  whether  it 
be  the  moral  or  the  civil  law,  a  public  authority  or  a  rival 
in  business.  "  The  strong  business  man"  has  no  use  for 
scruples.  Public  or  social  considerations  do  not  appeal 
to  him.  Or  if  they  do  present  themselves,  he  satisfies 
himself  with  the  belief  that,  from  activities  so  strenuous 
and  remarkable  as  his.  Good  must  result  to  the  com- 
munity. If  he  break  the  law,  that  is  the  fault  of  the 
law,  for  being  stupid  and  obstructive;  if  he  break  indi- 
viduals, that  is  their  fault  for  being  weak.  Vae  vidis 
Never  has  that  principle,  or  rather  instinct,  ruled  more 
paramount  than  it  does  in  America. 

To  say  this,  is  to  say  that  American  society  is  the 
most  individualistic  in  the  modern  world.  This  follows 
naturally  from  the  whole  situation  of  the  country.  The 
pioneer  has  no  object  save  to  get  rich;  the  government  of 
pioneers  has  no  object  save  to  develop  the  country  quickly. 
To  this  object  everything  is  sacrificed,  including  the 
interests  of  future  generations.  All  new  countries  have 
taken  the  most  obvious  and  easy  course.  They  have 
given  away  for  nothing,  or  for  a  song,  the  whole  of  their 
natural  resources  to  anybody  who  will  undertake  to  exploit 
them.  And  those  who  have  appropriated  this  wealth 
have  judged  it  to  be  theirs  by  a  kind  of  natural  right. 
"These  farms,  mines,  forests,  oilsprings  —  of  course  they 
are  ours.  Did  not  we  discover  them?  Did  not  we  squat 
upon  them?    Have  we  not '  mixed  our  labour  with  them'?  " 

[144I 


A  CONTINENT  OF  PIONEERS 

If  pressed  as  to  the  claims  of  later-comers  they  would 
probably  reply  that  there  remains  "  as  much  and  as 
good"  for  others.  And  this  of  course  is  true  for  a  time; 
but  for  a  very  short  time,  even  when  it  is  a  continent  that 
is  being  divided  up.  Practically  the  whole  territory  of 
the  United  States  is  now  in  private  ownership.  Still, 
the  owners  have  made  such  good  use  of  their  opportuni- 
ties that  they  have  created  innumerable  opportunities  for 
non-owners.  Artisans  get  good  wages;  lawyers  make 
fortunes;  stock  and  share  holders  get  high  dividends. 
Every  one  feels  that  he  is  flourishing,  and  flourishing  by 
his  own  efforts.  He  has  no  need  to  combine  with  his 
fellows;  or,  if  he  does  combine,  is  ready  to  desert  them  in  a 
moment  when  he  sees  his  own  individual  chance. 

But  this  is  only  a  phase;  and  inevitably,  by  the  logic 
of  events,  there  supervenes  upon  it  another  on  which,  it 
would  appear,  America  is  just  now  entering.  With  all 
her  natural  resources  distributed  among  individuals  or 
corporations,  and  with  the  tide  of  immigration  unchecked, 
she  begins  to  feel  the  first  stress  of  the  situation  of  which 
the  tension  in  Europe  has  already  become  almost  intol- 
erable. It  is  the  situation  which  cannot  fail  to  result 
from  the  system  of  private  property  and  inheritance 
established  throughout  the  Western  world.  Opportunities 
diminish,  classes  segregate.  There  arises  a  caste  of  wage- 
earners  never  to  be  anything  but  wage-earners;  a  caste  of 
property-owners,  handing  on  their  property  to  their 
descendants;  and  substantially,  after  all  deductions  have 

[145] 


APPEARANCES 

been  made  for  exaggeration  and  simplification,  a  division 
of  society  into  capitalists  and  proletarians.  American 
society  is  beginning  to  crystallise  out  into  the  forms  of 
European  society.  For,  once  more,  America  is  nothing 
new;  she  is  a  repetition  of  the  old  on  a  larger  scale.  And, 
curiously,  she  is  less  "  new  "  than  the  other  new  countries. 
Australia  and  New  Zealand  for  years  past  have  been 
trying  experiments  in  social  policy;  they  are  determined 
to  do  what  they  can  to  prevent  the  recurrence  there  of  the 
European  situation.  But  in  America  there  is  no  sign 
of  such  tendencies.  The  political  and  social  philosophy 
of  the  United  States  is  still  that  of  the  early  English 
individualists.  And,  no  doubt,  there  are  adequate  causes, 
if  not  good  reasons  for  this.  The  immense  wealth  and 
size  of  the  country,  the  huge  agricultural  population,  the 
proportionally  smaller  aggregation  in  cities  has  maintained 
in  the  mass  of  the  people  what  I  have  called  the  "pioneer  " 
attitude.  Opportunity  has  been,  and  still  is,  more  open 
than  in  any  other  country;  and,  in  consequence,  there  has 
hardly  emerged  a  definite  "working  class"  with  a  class 
consciousness.  This,  however,  is  a  condition  that  can- 
not be  expected  to  continue.  America  will  develop 
on  the  lines  of  Europe,  because  she  has  European  insti- 
tutions; and  "labour"  will  assert  itself  more  and  more  as 
an  independent  factor  in  politics. 

Whether  it  will  assert  itself  successfully  is  another 
matter.  At  present,  as  is  notorious,  American  politics 
are  controlled  by  wealth,  more  completely,  perhaps,  than 

[146] 


A  CONTINENT  OF  PIONEERS 

those  of  any  other  country,  even  of  England.  The  "cor- 
porations" make  it  a  main  part  of  their  business  to  cap- 
ture Congress,  the  Legislatures,  the  Courts,  and  the  city 
governments;  and  they  are  eminently  successful.  The 
smallest  country  town  has  its  "boss,"  in  the  employ  of  the 
Railway;  the  Public  Service  Corporations  control  the 
cities;  and  the  protected  interests  dominate  the  Senate. 
Business  governs  America;  and  business  does  not  include 
labour.  In  no  civilised  country  except  Japan  is  labour- 
legislation  so  undeveloped  as  in  the  States;  in  none  is 
capital  so  uncontrolled;  in  none  is  justice  so  openly  pros- 
tituted to  wealth.  America  is  the  paradise  of  plutocracy; 
for  the  rich  there  enjoy  not  only  a  real  power  but  a  social 
prestige  such  as  can  hardly  have  been  accorded  to  them 
even  in  the  worst  days  of  the  Roman  Empire.  Great 
fortunes  and  their  owners  are  regarded  with  a  respect  as 
naif  and  as  intense  as  has  ever  been  conceded  to  birth 
in  Europe.  No  American  youth  of  ambition,  I  am  told, 
leaves  college  with  any  less  or  greater  purpose  in  his  heart 
than  that  of  emulating  Mr.  Carnegie  or  Mr.  Rockefeller. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  conceded,  rich  men 
feel  an  obligation  to  dispose  of  their  wealth  for  public 
purposes,  to  a  degree  quite  unknown  in  Europe.  By  these 
lavish  gifts  the  people  are  dazzled.  They  feel  that  the 
millionaire  has  paid  his  ransom;  and  are  ready  to  forgive 
irregularities  in  the  process  of  acquiring  wealth  when  they 
are  atoned  for  by  such  splendid  penance.  Thus  the  rich 
man  in  America  comes  to  assume  the  position  of  a  kind  of 

[1471 


APPEARANCES 

popular  dictator.  He  is  admired  on  account  of  his  prowess, 
and  forgiven  on  account  of  his  beneficence.  And,  since 
every  one  feels  that  one  day  he  may  have  the  chance  of 
imitating  him,  no  one  judges  him  too  severely.  He  is 
regarded  not  as  the  "exploiter,"  the  man  grown  fat  on 
the  labour  of  others.  Rather  he  is  the  type,  the  genius 
of  the  American  people;  and  they  point  to  him  with  pride 
as  "one  of  our  strong  men,"  "one  of  our  conservative 
men  of  business." 

Individualism,  then,  is  stronger  and  deeper  rooted 
in  America  than  elsewhere.  And,  it  must  be  added, 
socialism  is  weaker.  It  is  an  imported  article,  and  it 
does  not  thrive  on  the  new  soil.  The  formulae  of  Marx 
are  even  less  congenial  to  the  American  than  to  the 
English  mind;  and  American  conditions  have  not  yet 
given  rise  to  a  native  socialism,  based  on  local  conditions 
and  adapted  to  local  habits  of  thought.  Such  a  native 
socialism,  I  believe,  is  bound  to  come  before  long,  perhaps 
is  arising  even  now.  But  I  would  not  hazard  the  assertion 
that  it  is  likely  to  prevail.  America,  it  would  seem,  stands 
at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Either  she  may  develop  on 
democratic  lines — and  Democracy,  as  I  think,  demonstra- 
bly implies  some  kind  of  socialism  —  or  she  may  fossilise 
in  the  form  of  her  present  Plutocracy,  and  realise  that  new 
feudalism  of  industry  which  was  dreamt  of  by  Saint-Simon, 
by  Comte,  and  by  Carlyle.  It  would  be  a  strange  con- 
summation, but  stranger  things  have  happened;  and  it 
seems  more  probable  that  this  should  happen  m  America 

(148J 


A  CONTINENT  OF  PIONEERS 

than  that  it  should  happen  in  any  European  country.  It 
is  an  error  to  think  of  America  as  democratic;  her  Democ- 
racy is  all  on  the  surface.  But  in  Europe,  Democracy 
is  penetrating  deeper  and  deeper.  And,  in  particular, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  England  is  now  more  demo- 
cratic than  the  United  States. 


(149 1 


m 

NIAGARA 

I  SHALL  not  describe  Niagara;  instead,  I  shall  repeat  a 
conversation. 

After  a  day  spent  in  visiting  the  falls  and  the  rapids, 
I  was  sitting  to-night  on  a  bench  on  the  river  bank. 
The  racing  water-ridges  glimmered  faintly  in  the  dusk, 
and  the  roar  of  the  falls  droned  in  unwavering  monot- 
ony. I  fell,  I  think,  into  a  kind  of  stupor;  anyhow,  I 
cannot  remember  when  it  was  that  someone  took  a 
seat  beside  me  and  began  to  talk.  I  seemed  to  wake 
and  feel  him  speaking;  and  the  first  remark  I  definitely 
heard  was  this:  "All  America  is  Niagara."  "All  America 
is  Niagara,"  the  voice  repeated  —  I  could  see  no  face. 
"Force  without  direction,  noise  without  significance, 
speed  without  accompHshment.  All  day  and  all  night 
the  water  rushes  and  roars.  I  sit  and  listen;  and  it  does 
nothing.  It  is  Nature;  and  Nature  has  no  significance. 
It  is  we  poets  who  create  significance,  and  for  that  reason 
Nature  hates  us.  She  is  afraid  of  us,  for  she  knows  that 
we  condemn  her.  We  have  standards  before  which  she 
shrinks  abashed.  But  she  has  her  revenge;  for  poets  are 
incarnate.    She  owns  our  bodies;  and  she  hurls  us  down 

[ISO] 


NIAGARA 

Niagara  with  the  rest,  with  the  others  that  she  loves,  and 
that  love  her,  the  virile,  big-jawed  men,  trampling  and 
trampled,  hustling  and  hustled,  working  and  asking  no 
questions,  falling  as  water  and  dispersing  as  spray.  Na- 
ture is  force,  loves  force,  wills  force  alone.  She  hates 
the  intellect,  she  hates  the  soul,  she  hates  the  spirit. 
Nietzsche  understood  her  aright,  Nietzsche  the  arch- 
traitor,  who  spied  on  the  enemy,  learned  her  secrets,  and 
then  went  over  to  her  side.     Force  rules  the  world." 

I  must  have  said  something  banal  about  progress,  for 
the  voice  broke  out: 

"There  is  no  progress!  It  is  always  the  same  river! 
New  waves  succeed  for  ever,  but  always  in  the  old  forms. 
History  tells,  from  beginning  to  end,  the  same  tale  —  the 
victory  of  the  strong  over  the  sensitive,  of  the  active  over 
the  reflective,  of  intelligence  over  intellect.  Rome  con- 
quered Greece,  the  Germans  the  Italians,  the  English 
the  French,  and  now,  the  Americans  the  world!  What 
matters  the  form  of  the  struggle,  whether  it  be  in  arms  or 
commerce,  whether  the  victory  go  to  the  sword,  or  to 
shoddy  advertisement,  and  fraud?  History  is  the  peren- 
nial conquest  of  civilisation  by  barbarians.  The  little 
islands  before  us,  lovely  with  trees  and  flowers,  green  oases 
in  the  rushing  river,  it  is  but  a  few  years  and  they  will  be 
engulfed.  So  Greece  was  swallowed  up,  so  Italy,  and  so 
will  it  be  with  England.  Not,  as  your  moralists  maintain, 
because  of  her  vices,  but  because  of  her  virtues.  She  is 
becoming  just,  scrupulous,  humane,  and  therefore  she  is 

[151I 


APPEARANCES 

doomed.  Ignoble  though  she  be,  she  is  yet  too  noble  to 
survive;  for  Germany  and  America  are  baser  than  she. 
Hark,  Hark  to  Niagara!  Force,  at  all  costs!  Do  you 
hear  it?  Do  you  see  it?  I  can  see  it,  though  it  is  dark. 
It  is  a  river  of  mouths  and  teeth,  of  greedy,  outstretched 
hands,  of  mirthless  laughter,  of  tears  and  of  blood.  I  am 
there,  you  are  there;  we  are  hurrying  over  the  fall;  we  are 
going  up  in  spray." 

"Yes,"  I  cried,  as  one  cries  in  a  nightmare,  "and  in  that 
spray  hangs  the  rainbow." 

He  caught  at  the  phrase.  "It  is  true.  The  rainbow 
hangs  in  the  spray!  It  is  the  type  of  the  Ideal,  hanging 
always  above  the  Actual,  never  in  it,  never  controlling  it. 
We  poets  make  the  rainbow;  we  do  not  shape  the  world." 

"We  do  not  make  the  rainbow,"  I  said.  "The  sun 
makes  it,  shining  against  it.     What  is  the  sun?  " 

"The  sun  is  the  Platonic  Good;  it  Ughts  the  world,  but 
does  not  warm  it.  By  its  illumination  we  see  the  river 
in  which  we  are  involved;  see  and  judge,  and  condemn, 
and  are  swept  away.  That  we  can  condemn  is  our  great- 
ness; by  that  we  are  children  of  the  sun.  But  our  vision 
is  never  fruitful.  The  sun  cannot  breed  out  of  matter; 
no,  not  even  maggots  by  kissing  carrion.  Between  Force 
and  Light,  Matter  and  Good,  there  is  no  interchange. 
Good  is  not  a  cause,  it  is  only  an  idea." 

"To  illuminate,"  I  said,  "is  to  transform." 

"No!  it  is  only  to  reveal!  Light  dances  on  the  surface; 
but  not  the  tiniest  wave  was  ever  dimpled  or  crisped  by 

[152] 


NIAGARA 

its  rays.  Matter  alone  moves  matter;  and  the  world  is 
matter.  Best  not  cry,  best  not  even  blaspheme.  Pass  over 
the  fall  in  silence.  Perhaps,  at  the  bottom,  there  is  ob- 
livion.    It  is  the  best  we  can  hope,  we  who  see." 

And  he  was  gone !  Had  there  been  anyone?  Was  there 
a  real  voice?  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the 
roar  of  Niagara.  When  I  returned  to  the  hotel,  I  heard 
that  this  very  afternoon,  while  I  was  sunning  myself  on 
one  of  the  islands,  a  woman  had  thrown  herself  into  the 
rapids  and  been  swept  over  the  fall.  Niagara  took  her, 
as  it  takes  a  stick  or  a  stone.  Soon  it  will  take  the  civilisa- 
tion of  America,  as  it  has  taken  that  of  the  Indians.  Cen- 
turies will  pass,  millenniums  will  pass,  mankind  will  have 
come  and  gone,  and  still  the  river  will  flow  and  the  sun 
shine,  and  they  will  communicate  to  one  another  their 
stern,  immortal  joy,  in  which  there  is  no  part  for  ephemeral 
men. 


[iS3l 


IV 

"THE  MODERN  PULPIT" 

It  is  a  bright  July  morning.  As  I  sit  in  the  garden  I  look 
out,  over  a  tangle  of  wild  roses,  to  a  calm  sea  and  a  flock 
of  white  sails.  Everything  invites  to  happy  thought  and 
innocent  reverie.  Moreover,  it  is  the  day  of  rest,  and 
every  one  is  at  leisure  to  turn  his  mind  towards  pleasant 
things.  To  what,  in  fact,  are  most  people  on  this  con- 
tinent turning  theirs?  To  this,  which  I  hold  in  my  hand, 
the  Sunday  newspaper. 

Let  us  analyse  this  production,  peculiar  to  the  New 
World.  It  comprises  eight  sections  and  eighty-eight  pages, 
and  very  likely  does  really,  as  it  boasts,  contain  "more 
reading  matter  than  the  whole  Bible." 

Opening  Section  i,  I  read  the  following  headings: 

"Baron   Shot   as   Bank-teller  —  Ends   Life   with 

Bullet." 
"Two   fatally    Hurt    in    Strike    Riots    at    Pitts- 
burg." 
"Steals  a  Look  at  Busy  Burglars." 
"Drowned  in  Surf  at  Narragansett." 
"Four  of  a  Family  fear  a  Dogs'  bite"  (sic). 
"Two  are  Dead,  Two  Dying;  Fought  over  Cow." 

[154I 


"THE  MODERN  PULPIT" 

Section  2  appears  to  be  concerned  with  similar  matter, 
for  example: 

"Struck  by  Blast,  Woman  is  Dying." 
"Hard  Shell  Crabs  help  in  giving  Burglar  Alarm." 
"Man  who  has  been  Married  three  times  denies 
the  Existence  of  God." 
But  here  I  notice  further  the  interesting  and  enigmatic 
heading: 

"Wm  'boost'  not  'knock'  New  York," 
and  roused  for  the  first  time  to  something  like  curiosity, 
read: 

"To  lock  horns  with  the  muckrakes  and  to  defend  New 
York  against  all  who  defame  and  censure  it  the  Association 
for  New  York  was  incorporated  yesterday." 

I  notice  also  "Conferences  agree  to  short  rates  on 
woollen  goods,"  and  am  reminded  of  the  shameless  bar- 
gaining of  which,  for  many  weeks  past,  Washington  has 
been  the  centre;  which  leads  me  to  reflect  on  the  political 
advantages  of  a  Tariff  and  its  wholesome  effect  on  the 
national  life. 

Section  3  deals  with  Aviation  and  seaside  resorts: 

"Brave  Lake  Placid,"   I  read,   "Planning  New 

Hotel." 
"Haines   Falls  entertaining  a   Great  Throng  of 

People." 
"Resoimd  with  the  Laughter  and  Shout  of  Sum- 
mer Throngs." 
Section  4  consists  entirely  of  advertisements: 

[155] 


APPEARANCES 

"Tuning-up  Sale,"  I  read.  "  Buf!-and-crimson  cards 
will  mark  the  trail  of  all  goods  ready  for  the  sale.  We 
are  tuning  up.  By  September  it  is  our  intention  to 
have  assembled  in  these  two  great  buildings  the  most 
fashionable  merchandise  ever  shown.  No  one  piece  of 
goods  will  be  permitted  to  linger  that  lacks,  in  any  detail, 
the  aesthetic  beauty  demanded  by  New  York  women  of 
fashion.  Everything  will  be  better  and  a  definite  per- 
centage lower  in  price  than  New  York  will  find  in  any 
other  store.  Do  not  expect  a  sale  of  ordinary  proportions. 
To-morrow  you  will  find  the  store  alive  with  enthusiasm. 
This  is  not  a  siunmer  hurrah."  And  so  on,  to  the  end  of 
the  page.  Twelve  pages  of  advertisements,  uninterrupted 
by  any  item  of  news. 

Section  5  is  devoted  to  automobile  gossip  and  auto- 
mobile advertisements. 

Thereupon  follows  the  Special  Sporting  Section: 
"Rumson  Freebooters  defeat  Devon's  first." 
"  '  Young  Corbett'  is  chipped  in  the  8th." 
"Doggett  and  Cubs  each  win  shut  out." 
"Brockett  is  easy  for  Detroit  Nine." 

Glancing  at  the  small  tj'pe  I  read : 

"Englewood  was  the  first  to  tally.  This  was  in  the 
fourth  inning.  W.  Merritt,  the  first  man  up,  was  safe 
on  Williams'  error,  and  he  got  round  to  third  on  another 
miscue  by  WUliams.  Charley  Clough  was  on  deck  with  a 
timely  single,  which  scored  Merritt.  Curran's  out  at 
first  put  Clough  on  third,  from  whence  he  tallied  on  Cum- 

[156] 


"THE  MODERN  PULPIT" 

ing's  single.  Cuming  got  to  second,  when  Wiley  grounded 
out  along  the  first  base  line  and  scored  on  Reinmiind's 
single.  Every  other  time  Reinmund  came  to  the  bat  he 
struck  out." 

I  pass  to  the  Magazine  Section. 

On  the  first  page  is  the  mysterious  heading  "E.  of  K. 
nnd  E."  Several  huge  portraits  of  a  bald,  clean-shaven 
man  in  shirt  sleeves  partially  explain.  E.  is  Mr.  Erlanger, 
a  theatrical  impresario,  and  K.  and  E.  presumably  are  his 
iirm.  The  article  describes  "the  accomplishment  of  a 
busy  man  on  one  of  his  ordinary  days,"  and  makes  one 
hope  no  day  is  ever  extraordinary.  The  interviewer  who 
tells  about  him  is  almost  speechless  with  emotion.  He 
searches  for  a  phrase  to  express  his  feelings,  finds  it  at 
last,  and  comes  triumphantly  to  his  close  —  Mr.  Erlanger 
is  a  man  "with  trained  arms,  trained  legs,  a  trained  body, 
and  a  trained  mind."  There  follows:  "The  Story  of  a 
Society  Girl,"  in  which  we  are  told  "there  is  a  confession 
of  love  and  the  startling  discovery  that  Dolly  was  a  pro- 
fessional model";  "The  Doctor's  Story,"  with  a  picture 
of  a  corpse,  "  whose  white,  shapely  hands  were  clasped  one 
over  the  other";  and  "Would  you  Convict  on  Circum- 
stantial Evidence?  —  A  Scaffold  Confession.  A  True 
Story."  I  glance  at  this,  and  read,  "While  the  crowd 
watched  in  strained,  breathless  silence  there  came  a  sharp, 
agonised  voice  and  a  commotion  near  the  steps  of  the 
scaffold.  'Stop!  Stop!  The  man  is  not  guilty,  I  mean 
it.    It  is  I  who  should  stand  there.    Let  me  speak.'" 

[i57l 


APPEARANCES 

You  can  now  reconstruct  the  story  for  yourself.  Next 
comes  " Get  the  Man!  Craft  and  courage  of  old-time  and 
modern  express-robbers  matched  by  organised  secret 
service  and  the  mandate  that  makes  capture  alone  the 
end  of  an  unflagging  man-hunt."  This  is  accompanied 
by  portraits  of  famous  detectives  and  train-robbers. 

There  follows  "Thrilling  Lines,"  with  a  picture  of  a 
man  who  seems  to  be  looping  the  loop  on  a  bicycle. 

And  the  conclusion  of  the  section  is  a  poem,  entitled 
"Cynthianna  Blythe,"  with  coloured  illustrations  appar- 
ently intended  for  children,  and  certainly  successful  in 
not  appealing  to  adults. 

Comment,  I  suppose,  is  superfluous.  But  it  is  only 
fair  to  say  that  the  whole  of  the  press  of  America  is  not 
of  this  character.  Among  the  thousands  of  papers  daily 
produced  on  that  continent,  it  would  be  possible,  I  believe, 
to  name  ten  —  I  myself  could  mention  five  —  which 
contain  in  almost  every  issue  some  piece  of  information 
or  comment  which  an  intelligent  man  might  care  to  peruse. 
There  are  to  be  found,  now  and  again,  passing  references  to 
European  and  even  to  Asiatic  politics;  for  it  cannot  be 
said  that  the  press  of  America  wholly  ignored  the  recent 
revolutions  in  Persia  and  in  Turkey.  I  myself  saw  a 
reference  to  the  new  Sultan  as  a  man  "fat,  but  not  fleshy." 
England  looms  big  enough  on  the  American  horizon  to  be 
treated  to  an  occasional  gibe;  and  the  doings  of  fashion- 
able Americans  in  London  are  reported  somewhat  fully. 
Still,  on  the  whole,  the  American  daily  press  is  typified 

[158] 


"THE  MODERN  PULPIT" 

by  the  specimen  I  have  analysed.  Sensations,  person- 
alities, and  fiction  are  its  stock-in-trade.  Why?  The 
causes  are  well  known,  but  are  worth  recapitulating, 
for  they  are  part  of  the  system  of  modern  civilisation. 

The  newspaper  press  is  a  business  intended  to  make 
money.  This  is  its  primary  aim,  which  may,  or  may  not, 
include  the  subordinate  purpose  of  advocating  some  line 
of  public  policy.  Now,  to  make  money,  it  is  essential 
to  secure  advertisements;  and  to  secure  advertisements  it 
is  essential  to  have  a  large  circulation.  But  a  large  cir- 
culation can  only  be  obtained  by  lowering  the  price  of 
the  paper,  and  adapting  it  to  the  leisure  mood  of  the  mass 
of  people.  But  this  leisure  mood  is  usually  one  of  sheer 
vacuity,  incapable  of  intellectual  effort  or  imaginative 
response.  The  man  is  there,  waiting  to  be  filled,  and  to 
be  filled  with  the  stuff  easiest  to  digest.  The  rest  follows. 
The  newspapers  supply  the  demand,  and  by  supplying 
extend  and  perpetuate  it.  Among  the  possible  appeals 
open  to  them  they  deliberately  choose  the  lowest.  For 
people  are  capable  of  Good  as  well  as  of  Bad;  and  if  they 
cannot  get  the  Bad  they  will  sometimes  take  the  Good. 
Newspapers,  probably,  could  exist,  even  under  democratic 
conditions,  by  maintaining  a  certain  standard  of  intelli- 
gence and  morals.  But  it  is  easier  to  exist  on  melodrama, 
fatuity,  and  sport.  And  one  or  two  papers  adopting  that 
course  force  the  others  into  line;  for  here,  as  in  so  many 
departments  of  modern  life,  "The  Bad  drives  out  the 
Good."    This  process  of  deterioration  of  the  press  is 

U59I 


APPEARANCES 

proceeding  rapidly  in  England,  with  the  advent  of  the 
halfpenny  newspaper.  It  has  not  gone  so  far  as  in  America, 
but  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not,  and  every  reason 
why  it  should;  for  the  same  causes  are  at  work. 

I  have  called  the  process  "deterioration,"  but  that,  of 
course,  is  matter  of  opinion.  A  Cabinet  Minister,  at  a 
recent  Conference  in  London,  is  reported  to  have  con- 
gratulated the  press  on  its  progressive  improvement  during 
recent  years.  And  Lord  Northclifie  is  a  peer.  The  more 
the  English  press  approximates  to  the  American,  the  more, 
it  would  seem,  it  may  hope  for  public  esteem  and  honour. 
And  that  is  natural,  for  the  American  method  pays. 

Well,  the  sim  still  shines  and  the  sky  is  still  blue.  But 
between  it  and  the  American  people  stretches  a  veil  of 
printed  paper.  Curious!  the  fathers  of  this  nation  read 
nothing  but  the  Bible.  That,  too,  it  may  be  said,  was  a 
veil;  but  a  veil  woven  of  apocal)7ptic  visions,  of  lightning 
and  storm,  of  Leviathan  and  the  wrath  of  Jehovah.  What 
is  the  stuff  of  the  modern  veil  we  have  seen?  And  surely 
the  contrast  is  calculated  to  evoke  curious  reflections. 


[i6o: 


IN  THE  ROCKIES 

Walking  alone  in  the  mountains  to-day  I  came  suddenly 
upon  the  railway.  There  was  a  little  shanty  of  a  station 
8000  feet  above  the  sea;  and,  beyond,  the  great  expanse 
of  the  plains.  It  was  beginning  to  sleet,  and  I  determined 
to  take  shelter.  The  click  of  a  telegraph  operator  told 
me  there  was  someone  inside  the  shed.  I  knocked  and 
knocked  again,  in  vain;  and  it  was  a  quarter  of  an  hoiir 
before  the  door  was  opened  by  a  thin,  yellow-faced  youth 
chewing  gum,  who  looked  at  me  without  a  sign  of  recogni- 
tion or  a  word  of  greeting.  I  have  learnt  by  this  time  that 
absence  of  manners  in  an  American  is  intended  to  signify 
not  surliness  but  independence,  so  I  asked  to  be  allowed 
to  enter.  He  admitted  me,  and  resumed  his  operations. 
I  listened  to  the  clicking,  while  the  sleet  fell  faster  and  the 
evening  began  to  close  in.  What  messages  were  they,  I 
wondered,  that  were  passing  across  the  mountains?  I 
connected  them,  idly  enough,  with  the  corner  in  wheat  a 
famous  speculator  was  endeavouring  to  establish  in  Chi- 
cago; and  reflected  upon  the  disproportion  between  the 
achievements  of  Man  and  the  use  he  puts  them  to.  He 
invents  wireless  telegraphy,  and  the  ships  call  to  one  an- 

[161] 


APPEARANCES 

other  day  and  night,  to  tell  the  name  of  the  latest  winner. 
He  is  inventing  the  flying-machine,  and  he  will  use  it  to 
advertise  pills  and  drop  bombs.  And  here  he  has  ex- 
terminated the  Indians,  and  carried  his  lines  and  his  poles 
across  the  mountains,  that  a  gambler  may  fill  his  pockets 
by  starving  a  continent.  "  CHck  —  click  —  click  —  Pick 
—  pick  —  pick  —  Pock  —  pock  —  pockets."  So  the  West 
called  to  the  East,  and  the  East  to  the  West,  while  the 
winds  roared,  and  the  sleet  fell,  over  the  solitary  moun- 
tains and  the  desolate  iron  road. 

It  was  too  late  now  for  me  to  reach  my  hotel  that  even- 
ing, and  I  was  obliged  to  beg  a  night's  rest.  The  yellow 
youth  assented,  with  his  air  of  elaborate  indifference,  and 
proceeded  to  make  me  as  comfortable  as  he  could.  About 
sunset  the  storm  passed  away  over  the  plains.  Behind  its 
flying  fringes  shot  the  last  rays  of  the  sun;  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  prairie  sea  was  all  bared  to  view,  as  wide  as  the 
sky,  as  calm  and  as  profound,  a  thousand  miles  of  grass 
where  men  and  cattle  crept  like  flies,  and  towns  and  houses 
were  swallowed  and  lost  in  the  infinite  monotony.  We 
had  supper  and  then  my  host  began  to  talk.  He  was  a 
democrat,  and  we  discussed  the  coming  presidential  elec- 
tion. From  one  newspaper  topic  to  another  we  passed  to 
the  talk  about  signalling  to  Mars.  Signalling  interested 
the  youth;  he  knew  all  about  that;  but  he  knew  nothing 
about  Mars  or  the  stars.  These  were  now  shining  bright 
above  us;  and  I  told  him  what  I  knew  of  suns  and  planets, 
of  double  stars,  of  the  moons,  of  Jupiter,  of  nebulae  and  the 

[162] 


IN  THE  ROCKIES 

galaxy,  and  the  infinity  of  space,  and  of  worlds.  He  chewed 
and  meditated,  and  presently  remarked:  "Gee!  I  guess 
then  it  doesn't  matter  two  cents  after  all  who  gets  elected 
president!"  Whereupon  we  turned  in,  he  to  sleep  and  I 
to  lie  awake,  for  I  was  disturbed  by  the  mystery  of  the 
stars.  It  is  long  since  the  notion  of  infinite  space  and 
infinite  worlds  has  impressed  my  imagination  with  any- 
thing but  discomfort  and  terror.  The  Ptolemaic  scheme 
was  better  suited  to  human  needs.  Our  religious  sense 
demands  not  only  order  but  significance;  a  world  not  merely 
great,  but  relevant  to  our  destinies.  Copernicus,  it  is  true, 
gave  us  liberty  and  space;  but  he  bereft  us  of  security 
and  intimacy.  And  I  thought  of  the  great  vision  of 
Dante,  so  terrible  and  yet  so  beautiful,  so  human  through 
and  through  —  that  vision  which,  if  it  contracts  space, 
expands  the  fate  of  man,  and  relates  him  to  the  sun  and 
the  moon  and  the  stars.  I  thought  of  him  as  he  crossed 
the  Apennines  by  night,  or  heard  from  the  sea  at  sunset  the 
tinkling  of  the  curfew  bell,  or  paced  in  storm  the  forest  of 
Ravenna,  always,  beyond  and  behind  the  urgency  of  busi- 
ness, the  chances  of  war,  the  bitterness  of  exile,  aware  of 
the  march  of  the  sun  about  the  earth,  of  its  station  in 
the  Zodiac,  of  the  solemn  and  intricate  wheeling  of  the 
spheres.  Aware,  too,  of  the  inner  life  of  those  bright 
luminaries,  the  dance  and  song  of  spirits  purged  by  fire, 
the  glow  of  Mars,  the  milky  crystal  of  the  moon,  and  Jupi- 
ter's intolerable  blaze;  and  beyond  these,  kindling  these, 
setting  them  their  orbits  and  their  order,  by  attraction 

[163] 


APPEARANCES 

not  of  gravitation,  but  of  love,  the  ultimate  Essence, 
imaged  by  purest  light  and  hottest  fire,  whereby  all  things 
and  all  creatures  move  in  their  courses  and  their  fates,  to 
whom  they  tend  and  in  whom  they  rest. 
And  I  recalled  the  passage: 

"Frate,  la  nostra  volontA  quieta 

Virtii  di  cariti,  che  fa  voleme 

Sol  quel  ch'avemo,  e  d'altro  non  d  asseta. 
Se  disiassimo  esser  piii  supeme, 

Fdran  discord!  gli  nostri  disiri 

Dal  voler  di  Colui  che  qui  ne  cerne; 
Che  vedrai  non  capere  in  questi  giri, 

S'essere  in  caritate  e  qui  necesse, 

E  se  la  sua  natura  ben  rimiri; 
Anzi  e  formale  ad  esto  beato  esse 

Tenersi  dentro  alia  divina  voglia, 

Perch'una  fansi  nostre  voglie  stesse. 
Si  che,  come  noi  siam  di  soglia  in  soglia 

Per  questo  regno,  a  tutto  il  regno  place, 

Com'allo  re,  che  in  suo  voler  ne  invoglia. 
E  la  sua  volontade  6  nostra  pace: 

Ella  t  quel  mare  al  qual  tutto  si  muove 

Cio  ch'  ella  crea  o  che  natura  face."' 


'"Brother,  the  quality  of  love  stilleth  our  will,  and  maketh  us 
long  only  for  what  we  have,  and  giveth  us  no  other  tliirst. 

"Did  we  desire  to  be  more  aloft,  our  longings  were  discordant 
from  his  will  who  here  assorteth  us, 

"And  for  that,  thou  wilt  see,  there  is  no  room  within  these  cir- 
cles, if  of  necessity  we  have  our  being  here  in  love,  and  if  thou  think 
again  what  is  love's  nature. 

"Nay,  'tis  the  essence  of  this  blessed  being  to  hold  ourselves 
within  the  divine  will,  whereby  our  own  wills  are  themselves  made 
one. 

"So  that  our  being  thus,  from  threshold  unto  threshold,  through- 
out the  realm,  is  a  joy  to  all  the  realm  as  to  the  King,  who  draweth 
our  wills  to  what  he  willeth; 

[164] 


IN  THE  ROCKIES 

And  then,  with  a  leap,  I  was  back  to  what  we  call  reality 
—  to  the  clicking  needle,  to  the  corner  in  wheat,  to  Chicago 
and  Pittsburg  and  New  York.  In  all  this  continent,  I 
thought,  in  all  the  western  world,  there  is  not  a  human 
soul  whose  will  seeks  any  peace  at  all,  least  of  all  the  peace 
of  God.  All  moye,  but  about  no  centre;  they  move  on, 
to  more  power,  to  more  wealth,  to  more  motion.  There 
is  not  one  of  them  who  conceives  that  he  has  a  place,  if 
only  he  could  find  it,  a  rank  and  order  fitted  to  his  nature, 
higher  than  some,  lower  than  others,  but  right,  and  the 
only  right  for  him,  his  true  position  in  the  cosmic  scheme, 
his  ultimate  relation  to  the  Power  whence  it  proceeds. 
Life,  like  astronomy,  has  become  Copernican.  It  has  no 
centre,  no  significance,  or,  if  any,  one  beyond  our  ken. 
Gravitation  drives  us,  not  love.  We  are  attracted  and 
repelled  by  a  force  we  cannot  control,  a  force  that  resides 
in  our  muscles  and  our  nerves,  not  in  our  will  and  spirit. 
"Click  —  click  —  click  —  tick  —  tick  —  tick,".so  goes  the 
economic  clock.  And  that  clock,  with  its  silly  face,  has 
shut  us  out  from  the  stars.  It  tells  us  the  time ;  but  behind 
the  dial  of  the  hours  is  now  for  us  no  vision  of  the  solemn, 
wheeling  spheres,  of  spirit  flames  and  that  ultimate  point 
of  light  "pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane."  "America 
is  a  clock,"  I  said;  and  then  I  remembered  the  phrase, 
"America  is  Niagara."     And  like  a  flake  of  foam,  dizzy 


"And  his  will  is  our  peace;  it  is  that  sea  to  which  all  moves  that 
it  createth  and  that  nature  maketh. 

Dante,  Purgatorio,  iii.    70-87  (trans,  by  Rev.  Philip  H. 
Wickstmi,  in  the  "Temple  Classics"  edition). 

J165] 


APPEARANCES 

and  lost,  I  was  swept  away,  out  into  the  infinite,  out  into 
unconsciousness. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  I  woke,  and  I  had 
slept  away  my  mood  of  the  night.  I  took  leave  of  my 
host,  and  under  his  directions,  after  half  a  mile  along  the 
line,  plunged  down  into  a  gorge,  and  followed  for  miles, 
crossing  and  re-crossing,  a  mountain  brook,  between  cliffs 
of  red  rocks,  by  fields  of  mauve  anemones,  in  the  shadow 
and  fragrance  of  pines;  till  suddenly,  after  hours  of  rough 
going,  I  was  confronted  by  a  notice,  set  up,  apparently, 
in  the  desert: 

"Keep  out.    Avoid  trouble.    This  means  you." 

I  laughed.  "Keep  out!"  I  said.  "If  only  there  were 
a  chance  of  my  getting  in ! "  "Avoid  trouble!  Ah,  what 
trouble  would  I  not  face,  could  I  but  get  in ! "  And  I  went 
on,  but  not  in,  and  met  no  trouble,  and  returned  to  the 
hotel,  and  had  dinner,  and  watched  for  a  solitary  hour,  in 
the  hall,  the  shifting,  interminable  array  of  vacant  eyes 
and  blank  faces,  and  then  retired  to  write  this  letter;  "and 
so  to  bed." 


[i66] 


VI 

IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS 

For  the  last  few  days  I  have  been  Uving  in  camp  on  a 
mountain  lake  in  the  Adirondacks.  All  about  me  are 
mountains  and  unlumbered  forest.  The  tree  lies  where 
it  falls;  the  undergrowth  chokes  the  trails;  and  on  the 
hottest  day  it  is  cool  in  thegreen,  sun-chequered  wilderness. 
Deer  start  in  the  thickets  or  steal  down  to  drink  in  the 
lake.  The  only  sounds  are  the  woodpecker's  scream,  the 
song  of  the  hermit-thrush,  the  thrumming  and  drumming 
of  bullfrogs  in  the  water.  My  friend  is  a  sportsman;  I 
am  not;  and  while  he  catches  trout  I  have  been  reading 
Homer  and  Shelley.  Shelley  I  have  always  understood; 
but  now,  for  the  first  time,  I  seem  to  understand  Homer. 
Our  guide  here,  I  feel,  might  have  been  Homer,  if  he  had 
had  imagination;  but  he  could  never  have  been  Shelley. 
Homer,  I  conceive,  had  from  the  first  the  normal  bent  for 
action.  What  his  fellows  did  he,  too,  wanted  to  do.  He 
learned  to  hunt,  to  sail  a  boat,  to  build  a  house,  to  use  a 
spear  and  bow.  He  had  his  initiation  early,  in  conflict, 
in  danger,  and  in  death.  He  loved  the  feast,  the  dance, 
and  the  song.  But  also  he  had  dreams.  He  used  to  sit 
alone  and  think.    And,  as  he  grew,  these  moods  grew, 

[167] 


APPEARANCES 

till  he  came  to  live  a  second  life,  a  kind  of  double  of  the 
first.  The  one  was  direct,  unreflective,  and  purposeful. 
In  it  he  hunted  wild  beasts  that  he  might  kill  them,  fought 
battles  that  he  might  win  them,  sailed  boats  that  he 
might  arrive  somewhere.  So  far,  he  was  like  his  fellows, 
like  our  guide,  with  his  quick  observation,  his  varied  ex- 
perience, his  practical  skill.  But  then,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  had  imagination.  This  active  life  he  reproduced;  not 
by  recapitulating  it  —  that  the  guide  can  do;  but  by  re- 
creating it.  He  detached  it,  as  it  were,  from  himself  as 
centre;  ceased,  indeed,  to  be  a  self;  and  became  all  that  he 
contemplated  —  the  victor  and  the  vanquished,  the  hunter 
and  the  hunted,  the  house  and  its  builder,  Thersites  and 
Achilles.  He  became  the  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  stars, 
the  gods  and  the  laughter  of  the  gods.  He  took  no  sides, 
pronounced  no  judgment,  espoused  no  cause.  He  became 
pure  vision;  but  not  passive  vision.  To  see,  he  had  to 
re-create;  and  the  material  his  observation  had  amassed 
he  offered  up  as  a  holocaust  on  the  altar  of  his  imagination. 
Fused  in  that  fierce  fire,  like  drew  to  like,  parts  ran  together 
and  formed  a  whole.  Did  he  see  a  warrior  fall?  In  a 
moment  the  image  arose  of  "a  stately  poplar  falling  by  the 
axe  in  a  meadow  by  the  riverside."  Did  a  host  move  out 
to  meet  the  foe?  It  recalled  the  ocean  shore  where  "  wave 
follows  wave  far  out  at  sea  until  they  break  in  thunder 
on  the  beach."  Was  battle  engaged?  " The  clash  of  the 
weapons  rang  like  the  din  of  woodcutters  in  the  mountain- 
glades."    Did  a  wounded  hero  fall?    The  combatants 

[i68] 


IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS 

gathered  about  him  "like  flies  buzzing  round  the  briniming 
milk-pails  in  the  spring."  All  commonest  things,  redeemed 
from  isolation  and  irrelevance,  revealed  the  significance 
with  which  they  were  charged.  The  result  was  the  actual 
made  real,  a  reflection  which  was  a  disclosure,  a  reproduc- 
tion which  was  a  recreation.  And  if  experience,  as  we 
know  it,  is  the  last  word  of  life,  if  there  is  nothing  beyond 
and  nothing  behind,  if  there  is  no  meaning,  no  explanation, 
no  purpose  or  end,  then  the  poetry  of  Homer  is  the  highest 
reach  of  human  achievement. 

For,  observe.  Homer  is  not  a  critic.  His  vision  trans- 
mutes life,  but  does  not  transcend  it.  Experience  is  ulti- 
mate; all  the  poet  does  is  to  experience  fully.  Common 
men  live,  but  do  not  reaHse  life;  he  realises  it.  But  he 
does  not  question  it;  it  is  there  and  it  is  final;  glorious, 
lovely,  august,  terrible,  sordid,  cruel,  unjust.  And  the 
partial,  smiling,  unmoved,  unaccountable  Olympians  are 
the  symbol  of  its  brute  actuality.  Not  only  is  there  no  ex- 
planation, there  is  not  even  a  question  to  be  asked.  So  it  is, 
so  it  has  been,  so  it  will  be.  Homer's  outlook  is  that  of  the 
modern  realist.  That  he  wrote  an  epic,  and  they  novels,  is 
an  accident  of  time  and  space.  Turgeneff  or  Balzac  writ- 
ing I  coo  years  before  Christ  would  have  been  Homer;  and 
Homer,  writing  now,  would  have  been  Turgeneff  or  Balzac. 

But  Shelley  could  never  have  been  Homer;  for  he  was 
born  a  critic  and  a  rebel.  From  the  first  dawn  of  con- 
sciousness he  challenged  and  defied  the  works  and  ways 
of  men,  and  the  apparent  order  of  the  universe.    Never  for 

[169] 


APPEARANCES 

a  moment  anywhere  was  he  at  home  in  the  world.  There 
was  nothing  attainable  he  cared  to  pursue,  nothing  actual 
he  cared  to  represent.  He  could  no  more  see  what  is 
called  fact  than  he  could  act  upon  it.  His  eyes  were  daz- 
zled by  a  different  vision.  Life  and  the  world  not  only 
are  intolerable  to  him,  they  are  unreal.  Beyond  and  be- 
hind lies  Reality,  and  it  is  good.  Now  it  is  a  Perfectibility 
lying  in  the  future;  now  a  Perfection  existing  eternally. 
In  any  case,  whatever  it  be,  however  and  wherever  to  be 
found,  it  is  the  sole  object  of  his  quest  and  of  his  song. 
Whatever  of  good  or  lovely  or  passionate  gleams  here  and 
there,  on  the  surface  or  in  the  depths  of  the  actual,  is  a 
ray  of  that  Sun,  an  image  of  that  Beauty.  His  imagina- 
tion is  kindled  by  Appearance  only  to  soar  away  from  it. 
The  landscape  he  depicts  is  all  light,  all  fountains  and 
caverns.  The  Beings  with  which  it  is  peopled  are  dis- 
carnate  Joys  and  Hopes;  Justice  and  Liberty,  Peace  and 
Love  and  Truth.  Among  these  only  is  he  at  home;  in  the 
world  of  men  he  is  an  alien  captive;  and  Human  Life  pre- 
sents itself  as  an  "unquiet  dream." 

"  'Tis  we  that,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings." 

When  we  die,  we  awake  into  Reality  —  that  Reality  to 
which,  from  the  beginning,  Shelley  was  consecrated: 

"I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 
To  thee  and  thine  —  have  I  not  kept  my  vow?*' 

[170] 


IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS 

He  calls  it  "intellectual  Beauty";  he  impersonates  it  as 
Asia,  and  sings  it  in  verse  that  passes  beyond  sense  into 
music: 

"Life  of  Life!  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them; 

And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 
Make  the  cold  air  fire;  then  screen  them 

In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 

Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 
Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 
Through  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others;  none  beholds  thee, 

But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 
Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour, 
And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 
As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever! 

Lamp  of  Earth!  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing!" 

This  we  call  poetry;  and  we  call  the  Iliad  poetry.     But 
the  likeness  is  superficial,  and  the  difference  profound, 

[171] 


APPEARANCES 

Was  it  Homer  or  Shelley  that  grasped  Reality?  This  is 
not  a  question  of  literary  excellence;  it  is  a  question  of 
the  sense  of  life.  And  —  oddly  enough  —  it  is  a  question 
to  which  the  intellect  has  no  answer.  The  life  in  each  of 
us  takes  hold  of  it  and  answers  it  empirically.  The  normal 
man  is  Homeric,  though  he  is  not  aware  of  the  fact. 
Especially  is  the  American  Homeric;  naif,  spontaneous,  at 
home  with  fact,  implicitly  denying  the  Beyond.  Is  he 
right?  This  whole  continent,  the  prairies,  the  mountains, 
and  the  coast,  the  trams  and  trolleys,  the  skyscrapers,  the 
factories,  elevators,  automobiles,  shout  to  that  question 
one  long,  deafening  Yes.  But  there  is  another  country 
that  speaks  a  different  tongue.  Before  America  was, 
India  is. 


[172] 


vn 

THE  RELIGION  OF  BUSINESS 

In  the  house  in  which  I  am  staying  hangs  an  old  coloured 
print,  representing  two  couples,  one  young  and  lusty,  the 
other  decrepit,  the  woman  carrying  an  hour-glass,  the 
man  leaning  on  a  stick;  and  underneath,  the  following  in- 
scription: 

"  My  father  and  mother  that  go  stuping  to  your  grave, 
Pray  tell  me  what  good  I  may  in  this  world  expect  to  have?" 

"My  son,  the  good  y°  can  expect  is  all  forlorn, 
Men  doe  not  gather  grapes  from  of  a  thorn." 

This  dialogue,  I  sometimes  think,  symbolises  the  attitude 
of  the  new  world  to  the  old,  and  the  old  to  the  new.  Not 
seldom  I  feel  among  Americans  as  the  Egyptian  is  said  to 
have  felt  among  the  Greeks,  that  I  am  moving  in  a  world  of 
precocious  and  inexperienced  children,  bearing  on  my 
own  shoulders  the  weight  of  the  centuries.  Yet  it  is  not 
exactly  that  Americans  strike  one  as  young  in  spirit;  rather 
they  strike  one  as  undeveloped.  It  is  as  though  they  had 
never  faced  life  and  asked  themselves  what  it  is;  as  though 
they  were  so  occupied  in  running  that  it  has  never  occurred 

[173]. 


APPEARANCES 

to  them  to  inquire  where  they  started  and  whither  they 
are  going.  They  seem  to  be  always  doing  and  never  ex- 
periencing. A  dimension  of  life,  one  would  say,  is  lacking, 
and  they  live  in  a  plane  instead  of  in  a  solid.  That  missing 
dimension  I  shall  call  religion.  Not  that  Americans  do 
not,  for  aught  I  know,  "believe"  as  much  as  or  more  than 
Europeans;  but  they  appear  neither  to  believe  nor  to  dis- 
believe religiously.  That,  I  admit,  is  true  almost  every- 
where of  the  mass  of  the  people.  But  even  in  Europe  — 
and  far  more  in  India  —  there  Jhas  always  been,  and  still 
is,  a  minority  who  open  windows  to  the  stars;  and  through 
these  windows,  in  passing,  the  plain  man  sometimes  looks. 
The  impression  America  makes  on  me  is  that  the  windows 
are  blocked  up.  It  has  become  incredible  that  this  con- 
tinent was  colonised  by  the  Pilgrim  Fathers.  That  in- 
tense, narrow,  unlovely,  but  genuine  spiritual  life  has  been 
transformed  into  industrial  energy;  and  this  energy,  in  its 
new  form,  the  churches,  oddly  enough,  are  endeavouring 
to  recapture  and  use  to  drive  their  machines.  Religion 
is  becoming  a  department  of  practical  business.  The 
churches  —  orthodox  and  unorthodox,  old  and  new.  Chris- 
tian, Christian-Scientific,  theosophic,  higher-thinking  — 
vie  with  one  another  in  advertising  goods  which  are  all 
material  benefits:  "Follow  me,  and  you  will  get  rich," 
"Follow  me,  and  you  wall  get  well,"  "Follow  me,  and  you 
will  be  cheerful,  prosperous,  successful."  Religion  in 
America  is  nothing  if  not  practical.  It  does  not  concern 
itself  with  a  life  beyond;  it  gives  you  here  and  now  what 

[174] 


THE  RELIGION  OF  BUSINESS 

you  want.  "  What  (fo  you  want?  Money?  Come  along! 
—  Success?  This  is  the  shop ! — Health?  Here  you  are! 
Better  than  patent  medicines!"  The  only  part  of  the 
Gospels  one  would  suppose  that  interests  the  modern 
American  is  the  miracles;  for  the  miracles  really  did  do 
something.  As  for  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  —  well,  no 
Westerner  ever  took  that  seriously. 

This  conversion  of  religion  into  business  is  interesting 
enough.  But  even  more  striking  is  what  looks  like  a  con- 
version of  business  into  religion.  Business  is  so  serious 
that  it  sometimes  assumes  the  shrill  tone  of  a  revivalist 
propaganda.  There  has  recently  been  brought  to  my 
attention  a  circular  addressed  to  the  agents  of  an  insurance 
society,  urging  them  to  rally  round  the  firm,  with  a  special 
effort,  in  what  I  can  only  call  a  "mission-month."  I 
quote  —  with  apologies  to  the  unknown  author  —  part  of 
this  production: 

The  Call  to  Action. 

"How  about  these  beautiful  spring  days  for  hustling? 
Everything  is  on  the  move.  New  life  and  force  is  appar- 
ent everywhere.  The  man  who  can  stand  still  when  all 
creation  is  on  the  move  is  literally  and  hopelessly  a  dead 
one. 

"These  are  ideal  days  for  the  insurance  field-man. 
Weather  like  this  has  a  tremendously  favourable  effect  on 
business.  In  the  city  and  small  town  alike  there  is  a  genu- 
ine revival  of  business.    The  farmer,  the  merchant,  the 

[175] 


APPEARANCES 

manufacturer,  are  beginning  to  work  overtime.  Spring 
is  in  the  footstep  of  the  ambitious  man  as  well  as  in  the 
onward  march  of  nature.  This  is  the  day  of  growth,  ex- 
pansion, creation,  and  re-creation. 

"  Consciously  or  unconsciously  every  one  responds  to  the 
glad  call  to  new  life  and  vigour.  Men  who  are  cold  and 
selfish,  who  are  literally  frozen  up  the  winter  through, 
yield  to  the  warm,  invigorating,  energising  touch  of  spring. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  field  force,  now  is  the  psychological 
moment  to  force  your  prospects  to  action  as  indicated  by 
the  dotted  line.  As  in  nature,  some  plants  and  trees  are 
harder  to  force  than  others,  so  in  the  nature  of  human  pros- 
pects, some  are  more  difficult  than  others.  Sunshine  and 
rain  will  produce  results  in  the  field  of  life-underwriting. 

"Will  it  not  be  possible  for  you  during  these  five  re- 
maining days  not  only  to  increase  the  production  from 
regular  sources,  but  to  go  out  into  the  highways  and  hedges 
and  compel  others  to  sign  their  applications,  if  for  only  a 
small  amount? 

"Everything  is  now  in  full  swing,  and  we  are  going  to 
close  up  the  month 

"in  a  blaze  of  glory." 

Might  not  this  almost  as  well  have  been  an  address  from 
the  headquarters  of  the  Salvation  Army?  And  is  not  the 
following  exactly  parallel  to  a  denunciation,  from  the 
mission-pulpit,  of  the  unprofitable  servant? 

"A  few  days  ago  we  heard  of  a  general  agent  who  has 
[176] 


THE  RELIGION  OF  BUSINESS 

one  of  the  largest  and  most  prosperous  territories  in  this 
country.  He  has  been  in  the  business  for  years,  and  yet 
that  man,  for  some  unknown  reason,  rather  apologises  for 
his  vocation.  He  said  he  was  a  little  ashamed  of  his  calling. 
Such  a  condition  is  almost  a  crime,  and  I  am  sure  that  the 
men  of  the  Eastern  Department  will  say,  that  man  ought 
to  get  out  of  the  business. 

''Instead  of  being  ashamed  of  his  calling,  he  shotdd  be 
mortally  ashamed  of  his  not  calling. 

"Are  you  happy  in  your  work?  If  not,  give  it  up  and 
go  into  some  business  more  to  your  liking." 

Why  Is  It? 

"So  many  times  the  question  is  asked,  'Why  is  it,  and 
how  is  it,  that  Mr.  So-and-so  writes  so  much  business? 
There  is  not  a  week  but  he  procures  new  applications.' 
Gentlemen,  there's  but  one  answer  to  this  question.  There 
is  a  great  gulf  between  the  man  who  is  in  earnest  and  works 
persistently  every  day  and  the  man  who  seems  to  be  in 
earnest  and  makes  believe  he  is  working  persistently  every 
day. 

"One  of  the  most  successful  personal  producers  said 
to  the  writer  the  other  day:  'No  wonder  certain  agents  do 
not  write  more  business.  I  couldn't  accomplish  very 
much  either  if  I  did  not  work  longer  hours  than  they  do. 
Some  insurance  agents  live  like  millionaires  and  keep 
bankers'  hours.    You  cannot  expect  much  business  from 

[177I 


APPEARANCES 

efforts  like  that.'    This  man  speaks  from  practical  knowl- 
edge of  the  business.    He  has  written 

$147,500  in  personal  business  in  the  last  six  weeks. 

"It  does  seem  rather  strange,  sometimes,  that  half  of 
the  men  in  the  Eastern  Department  should  be  writing 
twice  as  much  business  as  the  other  half.  They  are  rep- 
resenting the  same  company;  presenting  the  same  propo- 
sitions; are  supposed  to  be  talking  to  practically  the  same 
nimaber  of  men;  have  the  same  rates,  same  guarantees, 
and  the  same  twenty-four  hours  in  each  day,  and  yet  are 
doing  twice  the  business.  In  other  words,  making  more 
money.  What  really  makes  this  difference?  I  will  teU 
you.  They  put  heart  into  their  work.  There  is  an  en- 
thusiasm and  earnestness  about  them  that  carries  con- 
viction. They  are  business  through  and  through,  and 
everybody  knows  it. 

"Are  you  getting  your  share  of  applications?  If  some 
other  agent  is  up  early,  wide-awake  and  alert,  putting  in 
from  ten  to  fifteen  hours  per  day,  he  is  bound  to  do  busi- 
ness, isn't  he?  This  is  a  plain,  every-day,  horse-sense, 
business  fact.  No  one  has  a  patent  on  time  or  the  use 
of  it.  To  work  and  to  succeed  is  common  property.  It 
is  your  capital,  and  the  use  of  it  will  determine  your  worth." 

I  think,  really,  this  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  docu- 
ments that  could  be  produced  in  evidence  of  the  character 
of  American  civilisation.  There  is  all  the  push,  initiative, 
and  enterprise  on  which  they  justly  pride  themselves; 

[178] 


THE  RELIGION  OF  BUSINESS 

there  is  also  the  reduction  of  all  values  to  terms  of  business, 
the  concentration  of  what,  at  other  times,  have  been  moral 
and  religious  forces  upon  the  one  aim  of  material  progress. 
In  such  an  atmosphere  it  is  easy  to  see  how  those  who  care 
for  spiritual  values  are  led  to  protest  that  these  are  really 
material;  to  pack  up  their  goods,  so  to  speak,  as  if  they 
were  biscuits  or  pork,  and  palm  them  ofif  in  that  guise  on 
an  unsuspecting  public.  In  a  world  where  every  one  is 
hustling,  the  Churches  feel  they  must  hustle,  too;  when  all 
the  firms  advertise,  they  must  advertise,  too;  when  only 
one  thing  is  valued,  power,  they  must  pretend  they  can 
offer  power;  they  must  go  into  business,  because  business 
is  going  into  religion! 

It  is  a  curious  spectacle!  How  long  will  it  last?  How 
real  is  it,  even  now?  That  withered  couple,  I  half  believe, 
hanging  on  the  wall,  descend  at  night  and  wander  through 
the  land,  whispering  to  all  the  sleepers  their  disquieting 
warning;  and  all  day  long  there  hovers  at  the  back  of  the 
minds  of  these  active  men  a  sense  of  discomfort  which,  if 
it  became  articulate,  might  express  itself  in  the  ancient 
words: 

"My  son,  the  good  y°  can  expect  is  all  forlorn, 
Men  doe  not  gather  grapes  from  of  a  thorn." 


[179] 


vm 

RED-BLOODS    AND    "MOLLYCODDLES" 

I  AM  staying  at  a  pleasant  place  in  New  Hampshire.  The 
country  is  hilly  and  wooded,  like  a  larger  and  wilder  Surrey, 
and  through  it  flows  what,  to  an  Enghshman,  seems  a 
large  river,  the  Connecticut.  Charming  villas  are  dotted 
about,  well  designed  and  secluded,  in  pretty  gardens.  I 
mention  this  because,  in  my  experience  of  America,  it  is 
unique.  Almost  everywhere  the  houses  stare  blankly  at 
one  another  and  at  the  public  roads,  ugly,  unsheltered,  and 
unashamed,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Every  one  is  welcome  to 
see  what  goes  on  here.  We  court  pubUcity.  See  how  we 
eat,  drink,  and  sleep.  Our  private  life  is  the  property  of 
the  American  people."  It  was  not,  however,  to  describe 
the  country  that  I  began  this  letter,  but  to  elaborate  a 
generalisation  developed  by  my  host  and  myself  as  a 
kind  of  self-protection  against  the  gospel  of  "strenuous- 
ness." 

We  have  divided  men  into  Red-bloods  and  Molly- 
coddles. "A  Red-blood  man"  is  a  phrase  which  explains 
itself,  "Mollycoddle"  is  its  opposite.  We  have  adopted 
it  from  a  famous  speech  of  Mr.  Roosevelt,  and  redeemed 
it  —  perverted  it,  if  you  will  —  to  other  uses.    A  few  ex- 

[i8o] 


RED-BLOODS  AND   "MOLLYCODDLES" 

amples  will  make  the  notion  clear.  Shakspere's  Henry 
V.  is  a  typical  Red-blood;  so  was  Bismarck;  so  was  Palmer- 
ston;  so  is  almost  any  business  man.  On  the  other  hand, 
typical  Mollycoddles  were  Socrates,  Voltaire,  and  Shelley. 
The  terms,  you  will  observe,  are  comprehensive,  and  the 
types  very  broad.  Generally  speaking,  men  of  action  are 
Red-bloods.  Not  but  what  the  Mollycoddle  may  act,  and 
act  efficiently.  But,  if  so,  he  acts  from  principle,  not  from 
the  instinct  of  action.  The  Red-blood,  on  the  other  hand, 
acts  as  the  stone  falls,  and  does  indiscriminately  anything 
that  comes  to  hand.  It  is  thus  he  that  carries  on  the  busi- 
ness of  the  world.  He  steps  without  reflection  into  the 
first  place  offered  him  and  goes  to  work  like  a  machine. 
The  ideals  and  standards  of  his  family,  his  class,  his  city, 
his  country,  and  his  age,  he  swallows  as  naturally  as  he 
swallows  food  and  drink.  He  is  therefore  always  "in  the 
swim";  and  he  is  bound  to  "arrive,"  because  he  has  set 
before  himself  the  attainable.  You  will  find  him  every- 
where, in  all  the  prominent  positions.  In  a  military  age 
he  is  a  soldier,  in  a  commercial  age  a  business  man.  He 
hates  his  enemies,  and  he  may  love  his  friends;  but  he  does 
not  require  friends  to  love.  A  wife  and  children  he  does 
require,  for  the  instinct  to  propagate  the  race  is  as  strong 
in  him  as  all  other  instincts.  His  domestic  life,  however, 
is  not  always  happy;  for  he  can  seldom  understand  his 
wife.  This  is  part  of  his  general  incapacity  to  understand 
any  point  of  view  but  his  own.  He  is  incapable  of  an 
idea  and  contemptuous  of  a  principle.    He  is  the  Samson, 

[i8i] 


APPEARANCES 

the  blind  force,  dearest  to  Nature  of  her  children.  He 
neither  looks  back  nor  looks  ahead.  He  lives  in  present 
action.  And  when  he  can  no  longer  act,  he  loses  his  reason 
for  existence.  The  Red-blood  is  happiest  if  he  dies  in  the 
prime  of  life;  otherwise,  he  may  easily  end  with  suicide. 
For  he  has  no  inner  life;  and  when  the  outer  life  fails,  he 
can  only  fail  with  it.  The  instinct  that  animated  him 
being  dead,  he  dies,  too.  Nature,  who  has  blown  through 
him,  blows  elsewhere.  His  stops  are  dumb;  he  is  dead 
wood  on  the  shore. 

The  Mollycoddle,  on  the  other  hand,  is  all  inner  life. 
He  may  indeed  act,  as  I  said,  but  he  acts,  so  to  speak,  by 
accident;  just  as  the  Red-blood  may  reflect,  but  reflects 
by  accident.  The  Mollycoddle  in  action  is  the  Crank: 
it  is  he  who  accomplishes  reforms;  who  abolished  slavery, 
for  example,  and  revolutionised  prisons  and  lunatic  asy- 
lums. Still,  primarily,  the  Mollycoddle  is  a  critic,  not  a 
man  of  action.  He  challenges  all  standards  and  all  facts. 
If  an  institution  is  established,  that  is  a  reason  why  he 
will  not  accept  it;  if  an  idea  is  current,  that  is  a  reason  why 
he  should  repudiate  it.  He  questions  everything,  includ- 
ing life  and  the  universe.  And  for  that  reason  Nature 
hates  him.  On  the  Red-blood  she  heaps  her  favours;  she 
gives  him  a  good  digestion,  a  clear  complexion,  and  sound 
nerves.  But  to  the  Mollycoddle  she  apportions  dyspepsia 
and  black  bile.  In  the  universe  and  in  society  the  Molly- 
coddle is  "out  of  it"  as  inevitably  as  the  Red-blood  is 
"in  it."    At  school,  he  is  a  "smug"  or  a  "swat,"  while 

[182I 


RED-BLOODS  AND  "MOLLYCODDLES" 

the  Red-blood  is  captain  of  the  Eleven.  At  college,  he  is 
an  "intellectual,"  while  the  Red-blood  is  in  the  "best  set." 
In  the  world,  he  courts  failure  while  the  Red-blood  achieves 
success.  The  Red-blood  sees  nothing;  but  the  Mollycoddle 
sees  through  everything.  The  Red-blood  joins  societies; 
the  Mollycoddle  is  a  non-joiner.  Individualist  of  in- 
dividualists, he  can  only  stand  alone,  while  the  Red-blood 
requires  the  support  of  a  crowd.  The  Mollycoddle  en- 
genders ideas,  and  the  Red-blood  exploits  them.  The 
Mollycoddle  discovers,  and  the  Red-blood  invents.  The 
whole  structure  of  civilisation  rests  on  foundations  laid 
by  Mollycoddles;  but  all  the  building  is  done  by  Red- 
bloods.  The  Red-blood  despises  the  Mollycoddle;  but,  in 
the  long  run,  he  does  what  the  Mollycoddle  tells  him. 
The  Mollycoddle  also  despises  the  Red-blood,  but  he 
cannot  do  without  him.  Each  thinks  he  is  master  of  the 
other,  and,  in  a  sense,  each  is  right.  In  his  lifetime  the 
Mollycoddle  may  be  the  slave  of  the  Red-blood;  but  after 
his  death,  he  is  his  master,  though  the  Red-blood  know  it 
not. 

Nations,  like  men,  may  be  classified  roughly  as  Red- 
blood  and  Mollycoddle.  To  the  latter  class  belong  clearly 
the  ancient  Greeks,  the  Italians,  the  French,  and  probably 
the  Russians;  to  the  former  the  Romans,  the  Germans, 
and  the  English.  But  the  Red-blood  nation  par  excellence 
is  the  American;  so  that,  in  comparison  with  them,  Europe 
as  a  whole  might  almost  be  called  Mollycoddle.  This 
characteristic  of  Americans  is  reflected  in  the  predominant 

[183] 


APPEARANCES 

physical  type  —  the  great  jaw  and  chin,  the  huge  teeth 
and  predatory  mouth;  in  their  speech,  where  beauty  and 
distinction  are  sacrificed  to  force;  in  their  need  to  live  and 
feel  and  act  in  masses.  To  be  born  a  Mollycoddle  in 
America  is  to  be  born  to  a  hard  fate.  You  must  either 
emigrate  or  succumb.  This,  at  least,  hitherto  has  been 
the  alternative  practised.  Whether  a  Mollycoddle  will 
ever  be  produced  strong  enough  to  breathe  the  American 
atmosphere  and  live,  is  a  crucial  question  for  the  future. 
It  is  the  question  whether  America  will  ever  be  civilised. 
For  civilisation,  you  will  have  perceived,  depends  on  a 
just  balance  of  Red-bloods  and  Mollycoddles.  Without 
the  Red-blood  there  would  be  no  life  at  all,  no  stuflf,  so 
to  speak,  for  the  Mollycoddle  to  work  upon;  without  the 
Mollycoddle,  the  stuff  would  remain  shapeless  and  chaotic. 
The  Red-blood  is  the  matter,  the  Mollycoddle  the  form; 
the  Red-blood  the  dough,  the  Mollycoddle  the  yeast. 
On  these  two  poles  turns  the  orb  of  human  society.  And 
if,  at  this  point,  you  choose  to  say  that  poles  are  points  and 
have  no  dimensions,  that  strictly  neither  the  Mollycoddle 
nor  the  Red-blood  exist,  and  that  real  men  contain  ele- 
ments of  both  mixed  in  different  proportions,  I  have  no 
quarrel  with  you  except  such  as  one  has  with  the  man  who 
states  the  obvious.  I  am  satisfied  to  have  distinguished 
the  ideal  extremes  between  which  the  Actual  vibrates. 
The  detailed  application  of  the  conception  I  must  leave 
to  more  patient  researchers. 
One  point  more  before  I  close.  This  Dichotomy,  so 
[184] 


RED-BLOODS  AND  "MOLLYCODDLES" 

far  as  I  can  see,  applies  only  to  man.  Woman  appears  to 
be  a  kind  of  hybrid.  Regarded  as  a  creature  of  instinct, 
she  resembles  the  Red-blood,  and  it  is  to  him  that  she  is 
first  attracted.  The  hero  of  her  youth  is  the  athlete,  the 
soldier,  the  successful  man  of  business;  and  this  predilection 
of  hers  accounts  for  much  of  human  history,  and  in  par- 
ticular for  the  maintenance  of  the  military  spirit.  On  the 
other  hand,  as  a  creature  capable  of  and  craving  sympathy, 
she  has  affinities  with  the  Mollycoddle.  This  dual  nature 
is  the  tragedy  of  her  life.  The  Red-blood  awakens  her 
passion,  but  cannot  satisfy  it.  He  wins  her  by  his  virility, 
but  cannot  retain  her  by  his  perception.  Hence  the  fact, 
noted  by  a  cynic,  that  it  is  the  Mollycoddle  who  cuckolds 
the  Red-blood.  For  the  woman,  married  to  the  Red-blood, 
discovers  too  late  that  she  is  to  him  only  a  trophy,  a  scalp. 
He  hangs  her  up  in  the  hall,  and  goes  about  his  business. 
Then  comes  the  Mollycoddle,  divining  all,  possessing  and 
offering  all.  And  if  the  Red-blood  is  an  American,  and 
the  Mollycoddle  an  European,  then  the  situation  is  tense 
indeed.  For  the  American  Red-blood  despises  woman  in 
his  heart  as  profoundly  as  he  respects  her  in  outer  obser- 
vance. He  despises  her  because  of  the  Mollycoddle  he 
divines  in  her.  Therefore  he  never  understands  her;  and 
that  is  why  European  Mollycoddles  carry  off  American 
women  before  the  very  eyes  of  the  exasperated  Red-blood. 
"  Am  I  not  clean?  "  he  cries.  "Am  I  not  healthy?  Ami 
not  athletic  and  efficient?"  He  is,  but  it  does  not  help 
him,  except  with  young  girls.     He  may  win  the  body,  but 

[i8s] 


APPEARANCES 

he  cannot  win  the  soul.  Can  it  be  true  then  that  most 
women  would  like  two  husbands,  one  Red-blood,  the  other 
Mollycoddle,  one  to  be  the  father  of  their  children,  the 
other  to  be  the  companion  of  their  souls?  Women  alone 
can  answer;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  history,  they  are 
beginning  to  be  articulate. 


Ci86) 


IX 

ADVERTISEMENT 

The  last  two  days  and  nights  I  spent  in  a  railway  train. 
We  passed  through  some  beautiful  country;  that,  I  beheve, 
is  the  fact;  but  my  feeling  is  that  I  have  emerged  from  a 
nightmare.  In  my  mind  is  a  jumbled  vision  of  huge 
wooden  cows  cut  out  in  profile  and  offering  from  dry 
udders  a  fibrous  milk;  of  tins  of  biscuits  portrayed  with  a 
ghastly  realism  of  perspective,  and  mendaciously  scream- 
ing that  I  needed  them  —  U-need-a  biscuit;  of  gigantic 
quakers,  multiplied  as  in  an  interminable  series  of  mirrors, 
and  offering  me  a  myriad  meals  of  indigestible  oats;  of 
huge,  painted  bulls  in  a  kind  of  discontinuous  frieze  bellow- 
ing to  the  heavens  a  challenge  to  produce  a  better  tobacco 
than  theirs;  of  the  head  of  a  gentleman,  with  pink  cheeks 
and  a  black  moustache,  recurring,  like  a  decimal,  ad  in- 
finitum on  the  top  of  a  board,  to  inform  me  that  his  beauty 
is  the  product  of  his  own  toilet  powder;  of  codfish  without 
bones  —  "the  kind  you  have  always  bought";  of  bacon 
packed  in  glass  jars;  of  whiz  suspenders,  sen-sen  throat- 
ease,  sure- fit  hose,  and  the  whole  army  of  patent  medicines. 
By  river,  wood,  and  meadow,  hamlet  or  city,  mountain 
or  plain,  hovers  and  flits  this  obscene  host;  never  to  be 

[187] 


APPEARANCES 

escaped  from,  never  to  be  forgotten,  fixing,  with  inexorable 
determination,  a  fancy  that  might  be  tempted  to  roam  to 
that  one  fundamental  fact  of  life,  the  operation  of  the 
bowels. 

Nor,  of  course,  are  these  incubi,  these  ghostly  emanations 
of  the  One  God  Trade,  confined  to  the  American  continent. 
They  haunt  with  equal  pertinacity  the  lovelier  landscapes 
of  England;  they  line  the  route  to  Venice;  they  squat  on 
the  Alps  and  float  on  the  Rhine;  they  are  beginning  to 
occupy  the  very  air,  and,  with  the  advent  of  the  air-ship, 
will  obliterate  the  moon  and  the  stars,  and  scatter  over 
every  lonely  moor  and  solitary  mountain  peak  memorials 
of  the  stomach,  of  the  liver,  and  the  lungs.  Never,  in 
effect,  says  modem  business  to  the  soul  of  man,  never  and 
nowhere  shall  you  forget  that  you  are  nothing  but  a  body; 
that  you  require  to  eat,  to  salivate,  to  digest,  to  evacuate; 
that  you  are  Uable  to  arthritis,  blood-poisoning,  catarrh, 
colitis,  calvity,  constipation,  consumption,  diarrhoea,  dia- 
betes, dysmenorrhoea,  epilepsy,  eczema,  fatty  degenera- 
tion, gout,  goitre,  gastritis,  headache,  haemorrhage/hysteria, 
hypertrophy,  idiocy,  indigestion,  jaundice,  lockjaw,  melan- 
cholia, neuralgia,  ophthalmia,  phthisis,  quinsey,  rheuma- 
tism, rickets,  sciatica,  syphilis,  tonsilitis,  tic  doloureux, 
and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  alphabet  and  back  again  to 
the  beginning.  Never  and  nowhere  shall  you  forget  that 
you  are  a  trading  animal,  buying  in  the  cheapest  and  selling 
in  the  dearest  market.  Never  shall  you  forget  that  noth- 
ing matters  —  nothing  in  the  whole  universe  —  except  the 

[i88] 


ADVERTISEMENT 

maintenance  and  extension  of  industry;  that  beauty,  peace, 
harmony  are  not  commercial  values,  and  cannot  be  allowed 
for  a  moment  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  advance  of  trade; 
that  nothing,  in  short,  matters  except  wealth,  and  that 
there  is  no  wealth  except  money  in  the  pocket.  This  — 
did  it  ever  occur  to  you  —  is  the  real  public  education 
every  country  is  giving,  on  every  hoarding  and  sky-sign, 
to  its  citizens  of  every  age,  at  every  moment  of  their  lives. 
And  that  being  so,  is  it  not  a  little  ironical  that  children 
should  be  taught  for  half  an  hour  in  school  to  read  a  poem 
of  Wordsworth  or  a  play  of  Shakspere,  when  for  the  rest 
of  the  twenty-four  hours  there  is  being  photographed  on 
their  minds  the  ubiquitous  literature  of  Owbridge  and 
'^f  Carter? 

But  of  course  advertisement  cannot  be  interfered  with! 
It  is  the  life-blood  of  the  nation.  All  traders,  all  politicians, 
all  journalists  say  so.  They  sometimes  add  that  it  is 
really,  to  an  unprejudiced  spirit,  beautiful  and  elevating. 
Thus  only  this  morning  I  came  across  an  article  in  a  leading 
New  York  newspaper,  which  remarks  that:  "The  individ- 
ual advertisement  is  commonly  in  good  taste,  both  in 
legend  and  in  illustration.  Many  are  positively  beautiful; 
and,  as  a  wit  has  truly  said,  the  cereal  advertisements  in 
the  magazines  are  far  more  interesting  than  the  serial 
stories."  This  latter  statement  I  can  easily  believe;  but 
when  I  read  the  former  there  flitted  across  my  mind  a 
picture  of  a  lady  lightly  clad  reclining  asleep  against  an 
open  window,  a  full  moon  rising  in  the  distance  over  a 

[189] 


APPEARANCES 

lake,  with  the  legend  attached,  "Cascarella  —  it  works 
while  you  sleep." 

The  article  from  which  I  have  quoted  is  interesting  not 
only  as  illustrating  the  diversity  of  taste,  but  as  indicat- 
ing the  high  degree  of  development  which  has  now  been 
attained  by  what  is  at  once  the  art  and  the  science  of 
advertisement.  "The  study  of  advertisement,"  it  begins, 
"seems  to  have  a  perennial  charm  for  the  American  public. 
Hardly  a  month  passes  but  some  magazine  finds  a  new 
and  inviting  phase  of  this  modern  art  to  lay  before  its 
readers.  The  solid  literature  of  advertisement  is  also 
growing  rapidly.  .  .  .  The  technique  of  the  subject 
is  almost  as  extensive  as  that  of  scientific  agriculture. 
Whole  volumes  have  been  compiled  on  the  art  of  writing 
advertisements.  Commercial  schools  and  colleges  devote 
courses  of  study  to  the  subject.  Indeed  the  comer-stone 
of  the  curriculum  of  a  well-known  business  college  is  an 
elective  upon '  Window-dressing.' "  That  you  may  be  under 
no  misapprehension,  I  must  add  that  this  article  appears 
in  what  is  admittedly  the  most  serious  and  respectable  of 
the  New  York  newspapers;  and  that  it  is  not  conceived 
in  the  spirit  of  irony  or  hyperbole.  To  the  American, 
advertisement  is  a  serious,  important,  and  elevating 
department  of  business,  and  those  who  make  it  their 
specialty  endeavour  to  base  their  operations  on  a  profound 
study  of  human  nature.  One  of  these  gentlemen  has  ex- 
pounded, in  a  book  which  has  a  wide  circulation,  the  whole 
philosophy  of  his  Uberal  profession.    He  calls  the  book 

[190] 


ADVERTISEMENT 

Imagination  in  Business;^  and  I  remark  incidentally 
that  the  use  of  the  word  "imagination,"  like  that  of  "art," 
in  this  connection,  shows  where  the  inquirer  ought  to  look 
for  the  manifestation,  on  this  continent,  of  the  aesthetic 
spirit.  "The  imaginative  man,"  says  the  writer,  "sends 
his  thought  through  all  the  instincts,  passions,  and  prej- 
udices of  men,  he  knows  their  desires  and  their  regrets, 
he  knows  every  human  weakness  and  its  sure  decoy."  It 
is  this  latter  clause  that  is  relevant  to  his  theme.  Poets 
in  earlier  ages  wrote  epics  and  dramas,  they  celebrated 
the  strength  and  nobility  of  men;  but  the  poet  of  the  mod- 
ern world  "cleverly  builds  on  the  frailties  of  mankind." 
Of  these  the  chief  is  "the  inability  to  throw  away  an  ele- 
ment of  value,  even  though  it  cannot  be  utilised."  On 
this  great  principle  is  constructed  the  whole  art  and  science 
of  advertisement.  And  my  author  proceeds  to  give  a 
series  of  illustrations,  "each  of  which  is  an  actual  fact, 
either  in  my  experience,  or  of  which  I  have  been  cognisant." 
Space  and  copyright  forbid  me  to  quote.  I  must  refer 
the  reader  to  the  original  source. 

Nowhere  else  will  be  found  so  lucid  an  expression  of  the 
whole  theory  and  practice  of  modem  trade.  That  theory 
and  practice  is  being  taught  in  schools  of  commerce  through- 
out the  Union,  and  there  are  many,  I  suppose,  who  would 
Uke  to  see  it  taught  in  English  universities.  But,  really, 
does  anyone  —  does  any  man  of  business  —  think  it  a 
better  education  than  Greek? 


'  Imagination  in  Business  (Harper's). 
[191] 


X 

CULTURE 

Scene,  a  club  in  a  Canadian  city;  persons,  a  professor,  a 
doctor,  a  business  man,  and  a  traveller  (myself).  Wine, 
cigars,  anecdotes;  and  suddenly,  popping  up,  like  a  Jack- 
in-the-box  absurdly  crowned  with  ivy,  the  intolerable  sub- 
ject of  education.  I  do  not  remember  how  it  began;  but 
I  know  there  came  a  point  at  which,  before  I  knew  where 
I  was,  I  found  myself  being  assaDed  on  the  subject  of 
Oxford  and  Cambridge.  Not,  however,  in  the  way  you 
may  anticipate.  Those  ancient  seats  of  learning  were  not 
denounced  as  fossilised,  effete,  and  corrupt.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  was  pressed,  urged,  implored,  almost  with  tears 
in  the  eye  —  to  reform  them?    No!  to  let  them  alone! 

"For  heaven's  sake,  keep  them  as  they  are!  You  don't 
know  what  you've  got,  and  what  you  might  lose!  We 
know!  We've  had  to  do  without  it!  And  we  know  that 
without  it  everything  else  is  of  no  avail.  We  bluster  and 
brag  about  education  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  But 
in  our  heart  of  hearts  we  know  that  we  have  missed  the 
one  thing  needful,  and  that  you,  over  in  England,  have 
got  it." 

"And  that  one  thing?" 

[192] 


CULTURE 

"  Is  Culture !  Yes,  in  spite  of  Matthew  Arnold,  Culture, 
and  Culture,  and  always  Culture!" 

"Meaning  by  Culture?" 

"Meaning  Aristotle  instead  of  Agriculture,  Homer 
instead  of  Hygiene,  Shakspere  instead  of  the  Stock 
Exchange,  Bacon  instead  of  Banking,  Plato  instead 
of  Paedagogics!  Meaning  intellect  before  intelligence, 
thought  before  dexterity,  discovery  before  invention! 
Meaning  the  only  thing  that  is  really  practical,  ideas;  and 
the  only  thing  that  is  really  human,  the  Humanities!" 

Rather  apologetically,  I  began  to  explain.  At  Oxford, 
I  said,  no  doubt  the  Humanities  still  hold  the  first  place. 
But  at  Cambridge  they  have  long  been  relegated  to  the 
second  or  the  third.  There  we  have  schools  of  Natural 
Science,  of  Economics,  of  Engineering,  of  Agriculture. 
We  have  even  a  Training  College  in  Paedagogics.  Their 
faces  fell,  and  they  renewed  their  passionate  appeal. 

"Stop  it,"  they  cried.  "For  heaven's  sake,  stop  it! 
In  all  those  things  we've  got  you  skinned  alive  over  here! 
If  you  want  Agriculture,  go  to  Wisconsin!  If  you  want 
Medicine,  go  to  the  Rockefeller  Institute!  If  you  want 
Engineering,  go  to  Pittsburg!  But  preserve  still  for  the 
English-speaking  world  what  you  alone  can  give!  Pre- 
serve liberal  culture!  Preserve  the  Classics!  Preserve 
Mathematics!  Preserve  the  seed-ground  of  all  practical 
inventions  and  appliances!  Preserve  the  integrity  of  the 
human  mind!" 

Interesting,  is  it  not?    These  gentlemen,  no  doubt,  were 

[  193  ] 


APPEARANCES 

not  typical  Canadians.  But  they  were  not  the  least  in- 
telligent men  I  have  met  on  this  continent.  And  when 
they  had  finally  landed  me  in  my  sleeping-berth  in  the 
train,  and  I  was  left  to  my  own  reflections  in  that  most 
uncomfortable  of  all  situations,  I  began  to  consider  how 
odd  it  was  that  in  matters  educational  we  are  always  en- 
deavouring to  reform  the  only  part  of  our  system  that 
excites  the  admiration  of  foreigners. 

I  do  not  intend,  however,  to  plunge  into  that  contro- 
versy. The  point  that  interests  me  is  the  view  of  my 
Canadian  friends  that  in  America  there  is  no  "culture." 
And,  in  the  sense  they  gave  to  that  term,  I  think  they 
are  right.  There  is  no  culture  in  America.  There  is 
instruction;  there  is  research;  there  is  technical  and  pro- 
fessional training;  there  is  specialisation  in  science  and 
industry;  there  is  every  possible  appUcation  of  life,  to  pur- 
poses and  ends;  but  there  is  no  life  for  its  own  sake.  Let 
me  illustrate.  It  is,  I  have  read,  a  maxim  of  American 
business  that  "a  man  is  damned  who  knows  two  things." 
"He  is  almost  a  dilettante,"  it  was  said  of  a  student,  "he 
reads  Dante  and  Shakspere"!  "The  perfect  professor," 
said  a  college  president,  "should  be  willing  to  work  hard 
eleven  months  in  the  year."  These  are  straws,  if  you  like, 
but  they  show  the  way  the  wind  blows.  Again,  you  will 
find,  if  you  travel  long  in  America,  that  you  are  suffering 
from  a  kind  of  atrophy.  You  will  not,  at  first,  realise  what 
it  means.  But  suddenly  it  will  flash  upon  you  that  you 
are  suffering  from  lack  of  conversation.    You  do  not  con- 

[194] 


CULTURE 

verse;  you  cannot;  you  can  only  talk.  It  is  the  rarest 
thing  to  meet  a  man  who,  when  a  subject  is  started,  is 
willing  or  able  to  follow  it  out  into  its  ramifications,  to 
play  with  it,  to  embroider  it  with  pathos  or  with  wit,  to 
penetrate  to  its  roots,  to  trace  its  connections  and  affinities. 
Question  and  answer,  anecdote  and  jest,  are  the  staples  oi 
American  conversation;  and,  above  all,  information.  They 
have  a  hunger  for  positive  facts.  And  you  may  hear  them 
hour  after  hour  rehearsing  to  one  another  their  travels, 
their  business  transactions,  their  experiences  in  trains,  in 
hotels,  on  steamers,  till  you  begin  to  feel  you  have  no 
alternatives  before  you  but  murder  or  suicide.  An  Ameri- 
can, broadly  speaking,  never  detaches  himself  from  ex- 
perience. His  mind  is  embedded  in  it;  it  moves  wedged 
in  fact.  His  only  escape  is  into  humour;  and  even  his 
humour  is  but  a  formula  of  exaggeration.  It  implies  no 
imagination,  no  real  envisaging  of  its  object.  It  does  not 
illuminate  a  subject,  it  extinguishes  it,  clamping  upon 
every  topic  the  same  grotesque  mould.  That  is  why  it 
does  not  really  much  amuse  the  English.  For  the  EngUsh 
are  accustomed  to  Shakspere,  and  to  the  London  cabby. 

This  may  serve  to  indicate  what  I  mean  by  lack  of 
culture.  I  admit,  of  course,  that  neither  are  the  English 
cultured.  But  they  have  culture  among  them.  They  do 
not,  of  course,  value  it;  the  Americans,  for  aught  I  know, 
value  it  more;  but  they  produce  it,  and  the  Americans  do 
not.  I  have  visited  many  of  their  colleges  and  universities, 
and  everywhere,  except  perhaps  at  Harvard  —  unless  my 

[i9Sl 


APPEARANCES 

impressions  are  very  much  at  fault  —  I  have  found  the 
same  atmosphere.  It  is  the  atmosphere  known  as  the 
"Yale  spirit,"  and  it  is  very  like  that  of  an  English  public 
school.  It  is  virile,  athletic,  gregarious,  all-penetrating, 
all-embracing.  It  turns  out  the  whole  university  to  sing 
rhythmic  songs  and  shout  rhythmic  cries  at  football 
matches.  It  praises  action  and  sniffs  at  speculation.  It 
exalts  morals  and  depresses  intellect.  It  suspects  the  soU- 
tary  person,  the  dreamer,  the  loafer,  the  poet,  the  prig. 
This  atmosphere,  of  course,  exists  in  English  universities. 
It  is  imported  there  from  the  public  schools.  But  it  is 
not  all-pervading.  Individuals  and  cliques  escape.  And 
it  is  those  who  escape  that  acquire  culture.  In  America, 
no  one  escapes,  or  they  are  too  few  to  count.  I  know 
Americans  of  culture,  know  and  love  them;  but  I  feel  them 
to  be  lost  in  the  sea  of  philistinism.  They  cannot  draw 
together,  as  in  England,  and  leaven  the  lump.  The  lump 
is  bigger,  and  they  are  fewer.  All  the  more  honour  to 
them;  and  all  the  more  loss  to  America. 

Whether,  from  all  this,  any  conclusion  is  to  be  drawn 
about  the  proper  policy  to  be  pursued  at  our  universities, 
is  a  question  I  will  not  here  discuss.  Culture,  I  think,  is 
one  of  those  precious  things  that  are  achieved  by  accident, 
and  by  accident  may  be  destroyed.  The  things  we  do  to 
maintain  it  might  kill  it;  the  things  we  do  to  kill  it  might 
preserve  it.  My  Canadian  friends  may  be  quite  wrong 
in  their  diagnosis  of  the  causes  that  engender  or  destroy 
it.    But  they  are  right  in  their  sense  of  its  importance; 

[196] 


CULTURE 

and  it  will  be  an  interesting  result  of  imperial  unity  if  we 
find,  to  our  astonishment,  that  the  Dominions  beyond  the 
seas  rally  round  exactly  those  things  in  England  which 
we  expect  them  to  declare  effete.  The  Rhodes  scholars  go 
to  Oxford,  not  to  Birmingham  or  Liverpool.  And  it  is 
Cambridge  that  peoples  the  universities  of  the  Empire  with 
professors. 


[197] 


XI 

ANTAEUS 

I  SAW  to-day  some  really  remarkable  landscapes  by  an 
American  artist.  So,  at  least,  they  seem  to  me.  They 
have,  at  any  rate,  a  quality  of  imagination  which  one  does 
not  expect  to  find  in  this  country.  "One  does  not  expect " 
—  why  not?  Why,  in  this  respect,  is  America,  as  un- 
doubtedly she  is,  so  sterile?  Artists  must  be  born  here 
as  much  as  elsewhere.  American  civilisation,  it  is  true, 
repels  men  of  reflection  and  sensitiveness,  just  as  it  attracts 
men  of  action;  so  that,  as  far  as  immigration  is  concerned, 
there  is  probably  a  selection  working  against  the  artistic 
type.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  men  of  action  often  pro- 
duce sons  with  a  genius  for  the  arts;  and  it  is  to  be  supposed 
that  they  do  so  as  much  in  America  as  elsewhere.  It  must 
be  the  environment  that  is  unfavourable.  Artists  and 
poets  belong  to  the  genus  I  have  named  "Mollycoddle"; 
and  in  America  the  Mollycoddle  is  hardly  allowed  to 
breathe.  Nowhere  on  that  continent,  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  see,  is  there  to  be  found  a  class  or  a  clique  of  men, 
respected  by  others  and  respecting  themselves,  who  also 
respect  not  merely  art  but  the  artistic  calling.  Broadly, 
business  is  the  only  respectable  pursuit;  including  under 

[198] 


ANT/EUS 

business,  Politics  and  Law,  which  in  this  country  are  only 
departments  of  business.  Business  holds  the  place  in 
popular  esteem  that  is  held  by  arms  in  Germany,  by  letters 
in  France,  by  Public  Life  in  England.  The  man,  therefore, 
whose  bent  is  towards  the  arts,  meets  no  encouragement; 
he  meets  ever3nvhere  the  reverse.  His  father,  his  uncles, 
his  brothers,  his  cousins,  all  are  in  business.  Business  is 
the  only  virile  pursuit  for  people  of  education  and  means, 
who  cannot  well  become  chauffeurs.  There  is,  no  doubt, 
the  professional  career;  but  that,  it  is  agreed,  is  adopted 
only  by  men  of  "no  ambition."  Americans  believe  in 
education,  but  they  do  not  believe  in  educators.  There 
is  no  money  to  be  made  in  that  profession,  and  the  making 
of  money  is  the  test  of  character.  The  born  poet  or  artist 
is  thus  handicapped  to  a  point  which  may  easily  discourage 
him  from  running  at  all.  At  the  best,  he  emigrates  to 
Europe,  and  his  achievement  is  credited  to  that  continent. 
Or,  remaining  in  America,  he  succumbs  to  the  environment, 
puts  aside  his  creative  ambition,  and  enters  business.  It 
is  not  for  nothing  that  Americans  are  the  most  active 
people  in  the  world.  They  pay  the  penalty  in  an  atrophy 
of  the  faculties  of  reflection  and  representation. 

Things  are  different  in  Europe,  and  even  in  England. 
There,  not  only  are  artists  and  men  of  letters  honoured 
when  they  are  successful  —  they  are,  of  course,  honoured 
at  that  stage  in  America;  but  the  pursuit  of  literature  and 
art  is  one  which  a  young  man  need  not  feel  it  discreditable 
to  adopt.    The  contemporaries  of  a  brilliant  youth  at 

[199I 


APPEARANCES 

Oxford  or  at  Cambridge  do  not  secretly  despise  him  if  he 
declines  to  enter  business.  The  first-class  man  does  not 
normally  aspire  to  start  life  as  a  drummer.  Public  life 
and  the  Church  offer  honourable  careers;  and  both  of  them 
have  traditional  aflfinities  with  literature.  So  has  the  Law, 
still  in  England  a  profession  and  not  a  trade.  One  may 
even  be  a  don  or  a  schoolmaster  without  serious  discredit. 
Under  these  conditions  a  young  man  can  escape  from  the 
stifling  pressure  of  the  business  point  of  view.  He  can 
find  societies  like-minded  with  himself,  equally  indifferent 
to  the  ideal  of  success  in  business,  equally  inspired  by  in- 
tellectual or  aesthetic  ambitions.  He  can  choose  to  be 
poor  without  feeling  that  he  will  therefore  become  des- 
picable. The  attitude  of  the  business  classes  in  England, 
no  doubt,  is  much  the  same  as  that  of  the  business  classes 
in  America.  But  in  England  there  are  other  classes  and 
other  traditions,  havens  of  refuge  from  the  prevalent  com- 
mercialism. In  America  the  trade-wind  blows  broad, 
steady,  universal,  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  con- 
tinent. 

This,  I  believe,  is  one  reason  for  the  sterility  of  America 
in  Art.  But  it  is  not  the  only  one.  Literature  and  Art 
in  Europe  rest  on  a  long  tradition  which  has  not  only 
produced  books  and  pictures,  but  has  left  its  mark  on  the 
language,  the  manners,  the  ideas,  the  architecture,  the 
physical  features  of  the  country.  The  books  and  the 
pictures  can  be  transplanted,  but  the  rest  cannot.  Thus, 
even  though  in  every  art  the  technical  tradition  has  been 

[200] 


ANTiEUS 

interrupted,  there  remains  in  Europe  what  I  will  call  the 
tradition  of  feeling;  and  it  is  this  that  is  absent  in  America. 
Art  in  Europe  is  rooted;  and  there  still  persists  into  the 
present  something  of  the  spirit  which  fostered  it  in  the 
past.  Not  only  is  Nature  beautiful,  she  is  humanised  by 
the  works  of  Man,  PoUtics  are  mellowed  by  history, 
business  tempered  by  culture.  Classes  are  more  segregated, 
types  more  distinct,  ideals  and  aims  more  varied.  The 
ghost  of  a  spiritual  life  still  hovers  over  the  natural,  shadow- 
ing it  with  the  beat  of  solemn  wings.  There  are  finer 
overtones  for  a  sensitive  ear  to  catch;  rainbow  hues  where 
the  spray  of  life  goes  up.  All  this,  it  is  true,  is  disappear- 
ing in  Europe;  but  in  America  it  has  never  existed.  A 
sensitive  European,  travelling  there,  feels  at  once  starved 
and  flayed.  Nothing  nourishes,  and  everything  hurts. 
There  is  natural  beauty,  but  it  has  not  been  crowned  and 
perfected  by  the  hand  of  man.  Whatever  he  has  touched 
he  has  touched  only  to  defile.  There  is  one  pursuit,  com- 
merce; one  type,  the  business  man;  one  ideal,  that  of  in- 
creasing wealth.  Monotony  of  talk,  monotony  of  ideas, 
monotony  of  aim,  monotony  of  outlook  on  the  world. 
America  is  industrialism  pure  and  simple;  Europe  is  in- 
dustrialism superimposed  on  feudalsim;  and,  for  the  arts, 
the  difference  is  vital. 

But  the  difference  is  disappearing.  Not  that  America 
is  becoming  like  Europe,  but  Europe  is  becoming  like 
America.  This  is  not  a  case  of  the  imitation  that  is  a 
form  of  flattery;  it  is  a  case  of  similar  causes  producing 

[201] 


APPEARANCES 

similar  results.  The  disease  —  or  shall  we  say,  to  use  a 
neutral  term  —  the  diathesis  of  commercialism  found  in 
America  an  open  field  and  swept  through  it  like  a  fire. 
In  Europe,  its  course  was  hampered  by  the  structures  of 
an  earlier  civilisation.  But  it  is  spreading  none  the  less 
surely.  And  the  question  arises  —  In  the  future,  when 
the  European  environment  is  as  unfavourable  to  Art  as 
the  American,  will  there  be,  in  the  West,  any  Art  at  all? 
I  do  not  know;  no  one  knows;  but  there  is  this  to  remark: 
What  I  am  calling  commercialism  is  the  infancy,  not  the 
maturity,  of  a  civilisation.  The  revolution  in  morals,  in 
manners,  and  in  political  and  social  institutions  which 
must  accompany  the  revolution  in  industry,  has  hardly  yet 
begun  its  course.  It  has  gone  further  in  Europe  than  in 
America;  so  that,  oddly  enough,  Europe  is  at  once  behind 
and  in  front  of  this  continent,  overlaps  it,  so  to  speak,  at 
both  ends.  But  it  has  not  gone  very  far  even  in  Europe; 
and  for  generations,  I  conceive,  poUtical  and  social  issues 
will  draw  away  much  of  the  creative  talent  that  might 
have  been  available  for  Art.  In  the  end,  one  may  suppose, 
something  like  a  stable  order  will  arise;  an  order,  that  is, 
in  which  people  will  feel  that  their  institutions  correspond 
sufficiently  with  their  inner  life,  and  will  be  able  to  devote 
themselves  with  a  free  mind  to  reflecting  their  civilisation 
in  Art. 

But  will  their  civilisation  be  of  a  kind  to  invite  such  re- 
flection? It  wiil  be,  if  the  present  movement  is  not  alto- 
gether abortive,  a  civilisation  of  security,  equity,  and 

[202] 


ANT^US 

peace;  where  there  is  no  indigence,  no  war,  and  compara- 
tively little  disease.  Such  society,  certainly,  will  not  oflfer 
a  field  for  much  of  the  kind  of  Art  that  has  been  or  is  now 
being  produced.  The  primitive  folk-song,  the  epic  of  war, 
the  novel  or  play  inspired  by  social  strife,  will  have  passed 
irrecoverably  away.  And  more  than  that,  it  is  sometimes 
urged,  there  will  be  such  a  dearth  of  those  tense  moments 
which  alone  engender  the  artistic  mood,  that  Art  of  any 
kind  will  have  become  impossible.  If  that  were  true,  it 
would  not,  in  my  opinion,  condemn  the  society.  Art  is 
important,  but  there  are  things  more  important;  and 
among  those  things  are  justice  and  peace.  I  do  not,  how- 
ever, accept  the  view  that  a  peaceable  and  just  society 
would  necessarily  also  be  one  that  is  uninspired.  That 
view  seems  to  me  to  proceed  from  our  incurable  material- 
ism. We  think  there  is  no  conflict  except  with  arms;  no 
rivalry  except  for  bread;  no  aspiration  except  for  money 
and  rank.  It  is  my  own  belief  that  the  removal  of  the 
causes  of  the  material  strife  in  which  most  men  are  now 
plunged  would  liberate  the  energies  for  spiritual  conflict; 
that  the  passion  to  know,  the  passion  to  feel,  the  passion 
to  love,  would  begin  at  last  to  take  their  proper  place  in 
human  life;  and  would  engender  the  forms  of  Art  appropri- 
ate to  their  expression. 

To  return  to  America,  what  I  am  driving  at  is  this: 
America  may  have  an  Art,  and  a  great  Art,  but  it  will 
be  after  she  has  had  her  social  revolution.  Her  Art  has 
first  to  touch  ground;  and  before  it  can  do  that,  the  ground 

[203] 


APPEARANCES 

must  be  fit  for  it  to  touch.  It  was  not  till  the  tenth  cen- 
tury that  the  seed  of  Mediaeval  Art  could  be  sown;  it  was 
not  till  the  thirteenth  that  the  flower  bloomed.  So  now, 
our  civilisation  is  not  ripe  for  its  own  Art.  What  America 
imports  from  Europe  is  useless  to  her.  It  is  torn  from 
its  roots ;  and  it  is  idle  to  replant  it ;  it  will  not  grow.  There 
must  be  a  native  growth,  not  so  much  of  America,  as  of 
the  modem  era.  That  growth  America,  like  Europe,  must 
will.  She  has  her  prophet  of  it,  Walt  Whitman.  In  the 
coming  centuries  it  is  her  work  to  make  his  vision  real. 


1 204) 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

The  preceding  pages  were  written  in  the  course  of  travel 
and  convey  the  impressions  and  reflections  of  the  moment. 
Whatever  interest  they  may  have  depends  upon  this  im- 
mediacy, and  for  that  reason  I  have  reprinted  them  sub- 
stantially as  they  j&rst  appeared.  Perhaps,  however,  some 
concluding  reflections  of  a  more  considered  nature  may  be 
of  some  interest  to  my  readers.  I  do  not  advance  them 
in  a  dogmatic  spirit  nor  as  final  judgments,  but  as  the  first 
tentative  results  of  my  gropings  into  a  large  and  compli- 
cated subject.  I  will  ask  the  reader,  therefore,  be  he  Wes- 
tern or  Oriental,  to  follow  me  in  a  spirit  at  once  critical 
and  sjnnpathetic,  challenging  my  suggestions  as  much  as 
he  will,  but  rather  as  a  fellow-seeker  than  as  an  opponent 
bent  upon  refutation.  For  I  am  trying  to  comprehend 
rather  than  to  judge,  and  to  comprehend  as  impartially  as 
is  compatible  with  having  an  attitude  of  one's  own  at  all. 
Ever  since  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  wrote  a  famous  line 
it  has  become  a  commonplace  of  popular  thought  in  Eng- 
land and  America  that  there  is  an  East  and  a  West,  and 
an  impassable  gulf  between  them.  But  Mr.  Kipling  was 
thinking  of  India,  and  India  is  not  all  the  East:  he  was 
thinking  of  England,  and  England  is  not  all  the  West. 


APPEARANCES 

As  soon  as  one  approaches  the  question  more  particularly 
it  becomes  a  complicated  matter  to  decide  whether  there 
is  really  an  East  and  a  West,  and  what  either  stands  for. 
That  there  is  a  West,  in  a  real  sense,  with  a  unity  of  its 
own,  is,  I  think,  true.  But  it  must  be  limited  in  time  to 
the  last  two  centimes,  and  in  space  to  the  countries  of 
Western  Europe  and  the  continent  of  America.  So  im- 
derstood,  the  West  forms,  in  all  the  most  important  re- 
spects, a  homogeneous  system.  True,  it  is  divided  into 
different  nations,  speaking  different  languages,  and  pursu- 
ing different,  and  often  conflicting,  policies;  and  these  dis- 
tinctions are  still  so  important  that  they  colour  our  fears 
and  hopes  and  sympathies,  and  take  form  in  the  burden 
of  armaments  and  the  menace  of  war.  Nevertheless,  seen 
in  the  perspective  of  history,  they  are  survivals,  atrophy- 
ing and  disappearing.  Behind  and  despite  of  them  there 
is  a  common  Western  mind  and  a  common  Western  organi- 
sation. Finance  is  cosmopolitan;  industry  is  cosmopolitan; 
trade  is  cosmopolitan.  There  is  one  scientific  method, 
and  the  results  achieved  by  it  are  common.  There  is  one 
system  of  industry,  that  known  as  Capitalism;  and  the 
problems  arising  from  it  and  the  solutions  propounded 
appear  alike  in  every  nation.  There  is  one  political  ten- 
dency, or  fact — that  of  popular  government.  There  are 
cognate  aims  and  similar  achievements  in  literature  and 
art.  There  is,  in  brief,  a  Western  movement,  a  Western 
problem,  a  Western  mentality;  and  the  particular  hap- 
penings of  particular  nations  are  all  parts  of  this  one  hap- 

[206] 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

pening.  Nor  is  this  all.  There  is  in  the  West  a  common 
religion.  I  do  not  refer  to  Christianity,  for  the  religion  I 
mean  is  held  by  hundreds  and  thousands  who  are  not 
Christians,  and  indeed  does  not  very  readily  find  in  Chris- 
tianity an  expression  at  once  coherent  and  pure.  It  has 
not  been  formulated  in  a  creed;  but  it  is  to  be  felt  and  heard 
in  all  the  serious  work  and  all  the  serious  thought  of  the 
West.  It  is  the  religion  of  Good  and  Evil,  of  Time  and 
the  process  in  Time.  If  it  tried  to  draw  up  a  confession 
of  faith  perhaps  it  would  produce,  as  its  first  attempt, 
something  of  this  kind: 

"I  believe  in  the  ultimate  distinction  between  Good  and 
Evil,  and  in  a  real  process  in  a  real  Time.  I  believe  it 
to  be  my  duty  to  increase  Good  and  diminish  Evil;  I  be- 
lieve that  in  doing  this  I  am  serving  the  purpose  of  the 
world.  I  know  this;  I  do  not  know  anything  else;  and 
I  am  reluctant  to  put  questions  to  which  I  have  no  answer, 
and  to  which  I  do  not  believe  that  anyone  has  an  answer. 
Action,  as  defined  above,  is  my  creed.  Speculation 
weakens  action.  I  do  not  wish  to  speculate,  I  wish  to  live. 
And  I  believe  the  true  life  to  be  the  life  I  have  described." 

In  saying  that  this  is  the  real  creed  of  the  modem  Wes- 
tern man  I  do  not  pretend  that  he  always  knows  or  would 
admit  it  to  be  so.  But  if  his  actions,  his  words,  and  his 
thoughts  be  sympathetically  interpreted,  where  all  are  at 
their  best,  I  think  they  will  be  found  to  imply  something 
of  this  kind.    And  this  attitude  I  call  religious,  not  merely 

[207] 


APPEARANCES 

ethical,  because  of  its  conviction  that  the  impulse  towards 
Good  is  of  the  essence  of  the  World,  not  only  of  men,  or 
of  Man.  To  believe  this  is  an  act  of  faith,  not  of  reason; 
though  it  is  not  contrary  to  reason,  as  no  faith  should  be 
or  long  can  be.  Many  men  do  not  believe  it,  for  many  are 
not  religious;  others,  while  believing  it,  may  beUeve  also 
many  other  things.  But  it  is  the  irreducible  minimum  of 
religion  in  the  modem  West,  the  justification  of  our  life, 
the  faith  of  our  works.  I  call  it  the  Religion  of  Time,  and 
distinguish  it  thus  from  the  ReHgion  of  Eternity. 

In  this  sense,  then,  this  profound  sense,  of  a  common 
aim  and  a  common  motive,  there  is  really  a  West.  Is 
there  also  an  East?  That  is  not  so  clear.  In  some  im- 
portant respects,  no  doubt,  the  Eastern  civihsations  are 
alike.  They  are  still  predominantly  agricultural.  Their 
industry  is  manual,  not  mechanical.  Their  social  unit  is 
the  extended  family.  To  travel  in  the  East  is  to  reaUse 
that  life  on  the  soil  and  in  the  village  is  there  still,  the  nor- 
mal life,  as  it  has  been  almost  everywhere  and  always, 
throughout  civilisation,  until  the  last  century  in  the  West. 
But  though  there  is  thus  in  the  East  a  common  way  of 
life,  there  is  not  a  common  organisation  nor  a  common 
spirit.  Economically,  the  great  Eastern  countries  are  still 
independent  of  one  another.  Each  lives  for  the  most  part 
by  and  on  itself,  and  their  intellectual  and  spiritual 
intercourse  is  now  (though  it  was  not  in  the  past)  as  negli- 
gible as  their  economic  commerce.  The  influence  that  is 
beginning  to  be  strong  upon  them  all  is  that  of  Western 

[208] 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

culture;  and  if  they  become  alike  in  their  outlook  on  life, 
it  will  be  by  assimilating  that.  But,  at  present,  they  are 
not  alike.  It  is  easy,  in  this  matter,  to  be  deceived  by 
the  outward  forms  of  religion.  Because  Buddhism  origi- 
nated in  India  and  spread  to  China  and  Japan,  because 
Japan  took  Confucian  ideals  from  China,  it  is  natural  to 
conclude  that  there  is  a  common  religious  spirit  through- 
out the  East,  or  the  Far  East.  But  one  might  as  reason- 
ably infer  that  the  spirit  of  the  christianised  Teutons  was 
the  same  as  that  of  the  Jews  or  of  the  Christians  in  the 
East.  Nations  borrow  religions,  but  they  shape  them  ac- 
cording to  their  own  genius.  And  if  I  am  not  very  much 
mistaken  the  outlook  of  India  is,  and  always  has  been, 
radically  distinct  from  and  even  opposed  to  that  of  China 
or  Japan.  These  latter  countries,  indeed,  I  believe,  are  far 
closer  to  the  West  than  they  are  to  India.  Let  me  explain. 
India  is  the  true  origin  and  home  of  what  I  have  called 
the  religion  of  Eternity.  That  idea  seems  to  have  gone 
out  from  her  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  nowhere  else 
was  it  received  with  equal  purity  and  passion.  Elsewhere 
than  in  India  the  claims  of  Time  were  predominant.  In 
India  they  have  been  subordinate.  This,  no  doubt,  is  a 
matter  of  emphasis.  No  society,  as  a  whole,  could  believe 
and  act  upon  the  beUef  that  activity  in  Time  is  simply 
waste  of  time,  and  absorption  in  the  Eternal  the  direct 
and  immediate  object  of  life.  Such  a  view,  acted  upon, 
would  bring  the  society  quickly  to  an  end.  It  would  mean 
that  the  very  physical  instinct  to  live  was  extinguished. 
[209] 


APPEARANCES 

But  as  the  Eternal  was  first  conceived  by  the  amazing 
originality  of  India,  so  the  passion  to  realise  it  here  and 
now  has  been  the  motive  of  her  saints  from  the  date  of  the 
Upanishads  to  the  twentieth  century.  And  the  method 
of  realisation  proposed  and  attempted  has  not  been  the 
living  of  the  temporal  life  in  a  particular  spirit,  it  has  been 
the  transcending  of  it  by  a  special  experience.  Indian 
saints  have  always  believed  that  by  meditation  and  ascetic 
discipline,  by  abstaining  from  active  life  and  all  its  claims, 
and  cultivating  solitude  and  mortification,  they  could  reach, 
by  a  direct  experience,  union  with  the  Infinite.  This  is  as 
true  of  the  latest  as  of  the  earliest  saints,  if  and  so  far  as 
Western  influences  have  been  excluded.  Let  me  illustrate 
from  the  words  of  Sri  Ramakrishna,  one  of  the  most  typical 
of  Indian  saints,  who  died  late  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
First,  for  the  claim  to  pass  directly  into  union  with  the 
Eternal: 

"I  do  see  that  Being  as  a  Reality  before  my  very  eyes! 
Why  then  should  I  reason?  I  do  actually  see  that  it  is 
the  Absolute  Who  has  become  all  these  things  about  us; 
it  is  He  who  appears  as  the  finite  soul  and  the  phenomenal 
world.  One  must  have  such  an  awakening  of  the  Spirit 
within  to  see  this  Reality.  .  .  .  Spiritual  awakening 
must  be  followed  by  Samadhi.  In  this  state  one  forgets 
that  one  has  a  body;  one  loses  all  attachment  to  things  of 
this  world."  ^ 

^Gospel  of  Sri  Ramakrishna,  second  edition,  Part  I.,  p.  310. 
[210] 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

And  let  it  not  be  supposed  that  this  state  called  Samadhi 
is  merely  one  of  intense  meditation.  It  is  something  much 
more  abnormal,  or  super-normal,  than  this.  The  book 
from  which  I  am  quoting  contains  many  accounts  of  its 
effects  upon  Sri  Ramakrishna.    Here  is  one  of  them: 

"He  is  now  in  a  state  of  Samadhi,  the  super-conscious 
or  God-conscious  state.  The  body  is  again  motionless. 
The  eyes  are  again  fixed!  The  boys  only  a  moment  ago 
were  laughing  and  making  merry!  Now  they  all  look 
grave.  Their  eyes  are  steadfastly  fixed  on  the  master's 
face.  They  marvel  at  the  wonderful  change  that  has  come 
over  him.  It  takes  him  long  to  come  back  to  the  sense 
world.  His  limbs  now  begin  to  lose  their  stiffness.  His 
face  beams  with  smiles,  the  organs  of  sense  begin  to  come 
back  each  to  its  own  work.  Tears  of  joy  stand  at  the 
comers  of  his  eyes.  He  chants  the  sacred  name  of 
Rama."i 

The  object,  then,  of  this  saint,  and  one  he  claims  to 
have  attained,  is  to  come  into  union  with  the  Infinite  by  a 
process  which  removes  him  altogether  from  contact  with 
this  world  and  from  all  possibiUty  of  action  in  it.  This 
world,  in  fact,  is  to  him,  as  to  all  Indian  saints  and  most 
Indian  philosophers,  phenomenal  and  unreal.  Of  the  spec- 
ulative problems  raised  by  this  conception  I  need  not 
speak  here.  But  it  belongs  to  my  purpose  to  bring  out  its 
bearing  upon  conduct.    All  conduct  depends  upon  the  con- 

'  Gospel  of  Sri  Ramakrishna,  second  edition,  Part  I. 
[211] 


APPEARANCES 

ception  of  Good  and  Evil.  Anti-moralists,  like  Nietzsche, 
assume  and  require  these  ideas,  just  as  much  as  moralists; 
they  merely  attempt  to  give  them  a  new  content.  If  con- 
duct is  to  have  any  meaning.  Good  and  Evil  must  be  real 
in  a  real  world.  If  they  are  held  to  be  appearances  con- 
duct becomes  absurd.  What  now  is  Sri  Ramakrishna's 
view  of  this  matter?  The  whole  life  that  we  Western  men 
call  real  is  to  him  a  mere  game  played  by  and  for  the  sake 
of  God,  or,  to  use  his  phrase,  of  the  Divine  Mother.  For 
her  pleasure  she  keeps  men  bound  to  Time,  instead  of  free 
in  Eternity.  For  her  pleasure,  therefore,  she  creates  and 
maintains  Evil.     I  quote  the  passage: 

"My  Divine  Mother  is  always  in  Her  sportive  mood. 
The  world,  indeed,  is  Her  toy.  She  will  have  Her  own 
way.  It  is  Her  pleasure  to  take  out  of  the  prison-house 
and  set  free  only  one  or  two  among  a  hundred  thousand 
of  her  children ! 

"^  Brahmo:  Sir,  She  can  if  She  pleases  set  everybody 
free.  Why  is  it,  then,  that  She  has  bound  us  hand  and 
foot  with  the  chains  of  the  world? 

"6'n  Ramakrishna:  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  her  pleasure. 
It  is  her  pleasure  to  go  on  with  Her  sport  with  all  these 
beings  that  She  has  brought  into  existence.  The  player 
amongst  the  children  that  touches  the  person  of  the  Grand- 
dame,  the  same  need  no  longer  run  about.  He  cannot 
take  any  further  part  in  the  exciting  play  of  Hide  and 
Seek  that  goes  on. 

[212} 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

"The  others  who  have  not  touched  the  goal  must  run 
about  and  play  to  the  great  delight  of  the  Grand-dame."* 

Thus  the  Indian  saint.  Let  us  now  try  to  bring  his  con- 
ception into  relation  with  what  we  in  the  West  believe 
to  be  real  experience.  In  a  railway  accident  a  driver  is 
pinned  against  the  furnace  and  slowly  burned  to  death, 
praying  the  bystanders  in  vain  to  put  him  out  of  his  misery. 
What  is  this?  It  is  the  sport  of  God!  In  Putumayo  in- 
nocent natives  are  deprived  of  their  land,  enslaved,  tor- 
tured, and  murdered,  that  shareholders  in  Europe  may 
receive  high  dividends.  What  is  this?  Thesport  of  God! 
In  the  richest  countries  of  the  West  a  great  proportion  of 
those  who  produce  the  wealth  receive  less  than  the  wages 
which  would  suffice  to  keep  them  in  bare  physical  health. 
What  is  this?  Once  more  the  sport  of  God!  One  might 
multiply  examples,  but  it  would  be  idle.  No  Western 
man  could  for  a  moment  entertain  the  view  of  Sri  Rama- 
krishna.  To  him  such  a  God  would  be  a  mere  devil.  The 
Indian  position,  no  doubt,  is  a  form  of  idealism;  but  an 
ideahsm  conditioned  by  defective  experience  of  the  life  in 
Time.  The  saint  has  chosen  another  experience.  But 
dearly  he  has  not  transcended  ours,  he  has  simply  left  it 
out. 

Now  I  am  aware  that  it  will  be  urged  by  some  of  the 
most  sincere  representatives  of  religion  in  India  that  Sri 
Ramakrishna  does  not  typify  the  Indian  attitude.  Per- 
haps not,  if  we  take  contemporary  India.     But  then  con- 

» Gospel  of  Sri  Ramakrishna,  second  edition,  Part  I.,  p.  145. 
[213] 


APPEARANCES 

temporary  India  has  been  profoundly  influenced  by  Wes- 
tern thought;  modern  Indians  like  Raja  Ram  Mohan  Roy, 
Keshub  Chunder  Sen,  Rabindranath  Tagore,  could  hardly 
have  thought  and  felt  as  they  did,  and  do,  were  it  not  for 
this  influence.  The  following  poem  of  Rabindranath  Ta- 
gore may  aptly  symbolise  this  breaking  in  of  the  West 
upon  the  East,  though  I  do  not  know  that  that  was  the 
author's  intention: 

"With  days  of  hard  travail  I  raised  a  temple.  It  had  no  doors  or 
windows,  its  walls  were  thickly  built  with  massive  stones. 

I  forgot  all  else,  I  shunned  all  the  world,  I  gazed  in  rapt  contempla- 
tion at  the  image  I  had  set  upon  the  altar. 

It  was  always  night  inside,  and  ht  by  the  lamps  of  perfumed  oil. 
The  ceaseless  smoke  of  incense  wound  my  heart  in  its  heavy 
coils. 

Sleepless,  I  carved  on  the  walls  fantastic  figures  in  mazy,  bewilder- 
ing lines  —  winged  horses,  flowers  with  human  faces,  women 
with  limbs  hke  serpents. 

No  passage  was  left  anywhere  through  which  could  enter  the  song 
of  birds,  the  murmur  of  leaves,  or  the  hum  of  the  busy  village. 

The  only  sound  that  echoed  in  its  dark  dome  was  that  of  incanta- 
tions which  I  chanted. 

My  mind  became  keen  and  still  hke  a  pointed  flame,  my  senses 
swooned  in  ecstasy. 

I  knew  not  how  time  passed  till  the  thunderstone  had  struck  the 
temple,  and  a  pain  stung  me  through  the  heart. 

The  lamp  looked  pale  and  ashamed;  the  carvings  on  the  walls,  hke 
chained  dreams,  stared  meaningless  in  the  light,  as  they 
would  fain  hide  themselves. 

I  looked  at  the  image  on  the  altar.    I  saw  it  smihng  and  alive  with 
the  hving  touch  of  God.    The  night  I  had  imprisoned  spread 
its  wings  and  vanished." ' 
*  The  Gardener,  p.  125. 

[214] 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

The  closed  temple,  I  believe,  is  a  true  image  of  the 
spiritual  life  of  India,  if  not  at  all  times,  at  any  rate  for 
many  centuries  previous  to  the  advent  of  the  English. 
Everything  seems  to  point  to  this  —  the  symbolic  charac- 
ter of  Indian  art;  the  absence  of  history  and  the  prevalence 
of  religious  legend;  the  cult  of  the  fakir  and  the  wander- 
ing ascetic.  In  India  one  feels  religion  as  one  feels  it 
nowhere  else,  unless  it  were  in  Russia.  But  the  religion 
one  feels  is  peculiar.  It  is  the  religion  that  denies  the 
value  of  experience  in  Time.  It  is  the  religion  of  the 
Eternal. 

But,  it  will  be  urged,  how  can  that  be,  when  India  con- 
tinues to  produce  her  teeming  millions;  when  these  per- 
force Uve  their  brief  Uves  in  a  constant  and  often  vain 
struggle  for  a  bare  livelihood;  when,  in  order  to  live  at  all, 
it  is  necessary  at  every  point  to  be  straining  vitaUty  in  the 
pursuit  of  temporal  goods  or  the  avoidance  of  temporal 
evils? 

I  make  no  attempt  to  disguise  or  to  weaken  this  paradox. 
But  I  suggest  that  it  is  but  one  of  the  many  paradoxes 
set  up  by  the  conflict  between  men's  instinct  for  life  and 
their  conscious  behefs.  Indians  Uve  not  because  they  be- 
lieve in  life,  but  because  they  cannot  help  it.  Their  hold 
on  life  is  certainly  less  than  that  of  Western  men.  Thus  I 
have  been  told  by  administrators  of  famine  reUef  or  of 
precautions  against  plague,  that  what  they  have  to  con- 
tend with  is  not  so  much  the  resistance  as  the  indifference 
of  the  population.    "Why  worry  us?"  they  say,  in  effect, 

[215I 


APPEARANCES 

"  life  is  not  worth  the  trouble.  Let  us  die  and  be  rid  of  it/' 
Life  is  an  evil,  that  is  the  root  feeling  of  India;  and  the 
escape  is  either,  for  the  mass,  by  death,  or  for  the  men  of 
spiritual  genius,  by  a  flight  to  the  Eternal.  How  this 
attitude  has  arisen  I  do  not  here  seek  to  determine;  race, 
climate,  social  and  political  conditions,  all  no  doubt  have 
played  their  part.  The  spiritual  attitude  is  probably  an 
effect,  rather  than  a  cause,  of  an  enfeebled  grip  on  life. 
But  no  one,  I  think,  who  knows  India,  would  dispute 
that  this  attitude  is  a  fact;  and  it  is  a  fact  that  dis- 
tinguishes India  not  only  from  the  West  but  from  the  Far 
East. 

For  China  and  Japan,  though  they  have  had,  and  to 
a  less  extent  still  have,  religion,  are  not,  in  the  Indian  sense, 
religious.  The  Chinese,  in  particular,  strike  one  as  secular 
and  practical;  quite  as  secular  and  practical  as  the  English. 
They  have  had  Buddhism,  as  we  have  had  Christianity; 
but  no  one  who  can  perceive  and  understand  would  say 
that  their  outlook  is  determined  by  Buddhism,  any  more 
than  ours  is  by  Christianity.  It  is  Confucianism  that 
expresses  the  Chinese  attitude  to  life,  whenever  the  Chinese 
soul,  becoming  aware  of  itself,  looks  out  from  the  forest  of 
animistic  beliefs  in  which  the  mass  of  the  people  wander. 
And  Confucianism  is  perhaps  the  best  and  purest  expres- 
sion of  the  practical  reason  that  has  ever  been  formulated. 
Family  duty,  social  duty,  political  duty,  these  are  the 
things  on  which  it  lays  stress.  And  when  the  Chinese 
spirit  seeks  escape  from  these  primary  preoccupations,  it 

[216] 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

finds  its  freedom  in  an  art  that  is  closer  to  the  world  of 
fact,  imaginatively  conceived,  than  that  of  any  other  race. 
Chinese  art  purifies  itself  from  symboUsm  to  become  in- 
terpretation; whereas  in  India  the  ocean  of  symbolism 
never  ceases  to  roll  over  the  drowning  surface  of  the  phe- 
nomenal world.  Chinese  literature,  again,  has  this  same 
hold  upon  life.  It  is  such  as  Romans  or  Englishmen,  if 
equally  gifted,  might  have  written.  Much  of  it,  indeed, 
is  stupidly  and  tediously  didactic.  But  where  it  escapes 
into  poetry  it  is  a  poetry  like  Wordsworth's,  revealing  the 
beauty  of  actual  things,  rather  than  weaving  across  them 
an  embroidery  of  subjective  emotions.  The  outlook  of 
China  is  essentially  the  outlook  of  the  West,  only  more 
sane,  more  reasonable,  more  leisured  and  dignified.  Posi- 
tivism and  Humanity,  the  dominant  forms  of  thought 
and  feeling  in  the  West,  have  controlled  Chinese  civilisa- 
tion for  centuries.  The  Chinese  have  built  differently  from 
ourselves  and  on  a  smaller  scale,  with  less  violence  and 
less  power;  but  they  have  built  on  the  same  founda- 
tions. 

And  Japan,  too,  at  bottom  is  secular.  Her  true  religion 
is  that  of  the  Emperor  and  his  divine  ancestors.  Her 
strongest  passion  is  patriotism.  A  Japanese,  like  an  In- 
dian, is  always  ready  to  die.  But  he  dies  for  the  splen- 
dours and  glories  of  this  world  of  sense.  It  is  not  because 
he  has  so  Uttle  hold  on  life,  but  because  he  has  so  much, 
that  he  so  readily  throws  it  away.  The  Japanese  are 
unlike  the  Chinese  and  unlike  the  Europeans  and  Ameri- 

[217] 


APPEARANCES 

cans;  but  their  outlook  is  similar.  They  believe  in  the 
world  of  time  and  change;  and  because  of  this  attitude, 
they  and  the  rest  of  the  world  stand  together  like  a  moim- 
tain  in  the  sun,  contemplating  uneasily  that  other  mys- 
terious peak,  shrouded  in  mist,  which  is  India. 

The  reader  by  this  time  will  have  grasped  the  point  I 
am  trying  to  put.  There  are  in  Man  two  religious  im- 
pulses, or,  if  the  expression  be  preferred,  two  aspects  of 
the  religious  impulse.  I  have  called  them  the  religion  of 
the  Eternal  and  the  religion  of  Time;  and  India,  I  suggest, 
stands  pre-eminently  for  the  one,  the  West  for  the  other, 
while  the  other  countries  of  the  East  rank  rather  with  the 
West  than  with  India.  It  is  not  necessary  to  my  purpose 
to  exaggerate  this  antithesis.  I  will  say  if  it  be  preferred, 
that  in  India  the  emphasis  is  on  the  Eternal,  in  the  West 
on  Time.  But  that  much  at  least  must  be  said  and  is 
plainly  true.  Now,  as  between  these  two  attitudes,  I  find 
myself  quite  clearly  and  definitely  on  the  side  of  the  West. 
I  have  said  in  the  preceding  pages  hard  things  about  Wes- 
tern civilisation.  I  hate  many  of  its  manifestations,  I 
am  out  of  sympathy  with  many  of  its  purposes.  I  can 
see  no  point,  for  instance,  in  the  discovery  of  the  north 
or  the  south  pole,  and  very  little  in  the  invention  of  aero- 
planes; while  gramophones,  machine  guns,  advertisements, 
cinematographs,  submarines,  dreadnoughts,  cosmopolitan 
hotels,  seem  to  me  merely  fatuous  or  sheerly  disastrous. 
But  what  lies  behind  all  this,  the  tenacity,  the  courage,  the 
spirit  of  adventure,  this  it  is  that  is  the  great  contributior 

[218I 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

of  the  West.  It  is  not  the  aeroplane  that  is  valuable; 
probably  it  will  never  be  anything  but  pernicious,  for  its 
main  use  is  likely  to  be  for  war.  But  the  fact  that  men  so 
lightly  risk  their  lives  to  perfect  it,  that  is  valuable.  The 
West  is  adventurous;  and,  what  is  more,  it  is  adventurous 
on  a  quest.  For  behind  and  beyond  all  its  fatuities,  con- 
fusions, crimes,  Ues,  as  the  justification  of  it  all,  that  deep 
determination  to  secure  a  society  more  just  and  more  hu- 
mane which  inspires  all  men  and  all  movements  that  are 
worth  considering  at  all,  and,  to  those  who  can  understand, 
gives  greatness  and  significance  even  to  some  of  our  most 
reckless  enterprises.  We  are  living  very  "dangerously"; 
all  the  forces  are  loose,  those  of  destruction  as  well  as 
those  of  creation;  but  we  are  living  towards  something;  we 
are  living  with  the  religion  of  Time. 

So  far,  I  daresay,  most  Western  men  will  agree  with  me 
in  the  main.  But  they  may  say,  some  of  them,  as  the 
Indian  will  certainly  say,  "Is  that  all?  Have  you  no  place 
for  the  Eternal  and  the  Infinite?"  To  this  I  must  reply 
that  I  think  it  clear  and  indisputable  that  the  religion  of 
the  Eternal,  as  interpreted  by  Sri  Ramakrishna,  is  alto- 
gether incompatible  with  the  religion  of  Time.  And  the 
position  of  Sri  Ramakrishna,  I  have  urged,  is  that  of  most 
Indian,  and  as  I  think,  of  most  Western,  mystics.  Not, 
however,  of  all,  and  not  of  all  modern  mystics,  even  in 
India.  Rabindranath  Tagore,  for  example,  in  his  "Sad- 
hana,"  has  put  forward  a  mysticism  which  does,  at  least, 
endeavour  to  allow  for  and  include  what  I  have  called  the 
[219] 


APPEARANCES 

religion  of  Time.  To  him,  and  to  other  mystics  of  real 
experience,  I  must  leave  the  attempt  to  reconcile  Eternity 
and  Time.  For  my  own  part,  I  can  only  approach  the 
question  from  the  point  of  view  of  Time,  and  endeavour  to 
discover  and  realise  the  most  that  can  be  truly  said  by 
one  who  starts  with  the  belief  that  that  is  real.  The  pro- 
foundest  prophets  of  the  religion  of  Time  are,  in  my  judg- 
ment, Goethe  and  George  Meredith;  and  from  them,  and 
from  others,  and  from  my  own  small  experience,  I  seem  to 
have  learned  this:  the  importance  of  that  process  in  Time 
in  whose  reality  we  beUeve  does  not  lie  merely  in  the  better- 
ing of  the  material  and  social  environment,  though  we 
hold  the  importance  of  that  to  be  great;  it  lies  in  the  devel- 
opment of  souls.  And  that  development  consists  in  a  con- 
stant expansion  of  interest  away  from  and  beyond  one's 
own  immediate  interests  out  into  the  activities  of  the  world 
at  large.  Such  expansion  may  be  pursued  in  practical  life, 
in  art,  in  science,  in  contemplation,  so  long  as  the  contem- 
plation is  of  the  real  processes  of  the  real  world  in  time. 
To  that  expansion  I  see  no  limit  except  death.  And  I 
do  not  know  what  comes  after  death.  But  I  am  clear 
that  whatever  comes  after,  the  command  of  Life  is  the 
same  —  to  expand  out  of  one's  self  into  the  life  of  the  world. 
This  command  —  I  should  rather  say  this  impulse  —  seems 
to  me  absolute,  the  one  certain  thing  on  which  everything 
else  must  build.  I  think  it  enough  for  religion,  in  the 
case  at  least  of  those  who  have  got  beyond  the  infant 
need  for  certitudes  and  dogmas.    These,  perhaps,  are  few; 

[220] 


CONCLUDING  ESSAY 

yet  they  may  be  really  more  numerous  than  appears.  And 
on  the  increase  in  their  numbers,  and  the  intensity  of  their 
conviction  and  their  life,  the  fate  of  the  world  seems  to  me 
to  depend. 


THE   END 


f22ll 


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